100 Yellow Doors

january 22nd, 2016/april 16th, 1959, 6:12 p.m.

Her vision swam with yellow.

Iman's mind spun; she could hardly remember the moments immediately before now. She had been outside, she'd thought. Walking back to her apartment with a bag of groceries and her phone to her ear. Yet the brisk DC winter air was gone, replaced with cozy, stifling warmth, dried twigs replaced with blooming rose bushes.

Iman, startled, took a wavering step back, blinking her eyes. She was on someone's front stoop, she thought, one house out of a hundred others just like it down this residential street. She heard voices speaking in English, vintage-sounding car horns. The air smelled like sea salt, and more faintly of gasoline.

Heat licked at her skin; she was about to shuck off her jacket and look for shelter when a voice called from behind her: "Lost, little one?"

Iman jolted, whirling around. Standing on the threshold, the sunshine yellow door caught in his hand, was a dark-haired man, maybe in his twenties, maybe older. His face, angular at some points, soft at others, made it difficult to tell. Iman was overwhelmed by the pure essence of him—the suaveness, she wanted to call it, from his gently curling black hair to his charming, lopsided smile to the concerned way he blinked at her.

He seemed to gather that something was wrong, a quiet distress building in his eyes. Almost nervously, he adjusted the collar of his multicolored sweater and asked, "Are you—okay?"

There was a beat of hesitation in which words refused to come to Iman's mind. Finally, she managed, "What year is it?"

The man's eyebrow lifted, but he answered nonetheless. "1959."

Fuck, Iman wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, she said, "Okay. Wow. Thank you, um, I'm just gonna—"

"Wait," he said. "I'm getting a feeling."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm getting a feeling you and I are in similar boats," said the man, and before Iman could ask what the hell that even meant, he gestured inside the house. "Are you hungry? I was just heating up a frozen pizza."

A part of Iman screamed at herself to leave; she would be safer, better off, on her own. The other part of Iman was her stomach, which growled at the thought of anything edible, even ancient frozen pizza.

He led her back to the kitchen, which, with its cerulean fridge, yellow countertops, and floral backsplash, made Iman want to throw up in her mouth. It was the 50s, she reminded herself. It was probably a very nice kitchen in the 50s. It was probably a very nice kitchen now, she corrected herself.

The 50s? The 50s? What was she doing here?

Placed on a small, iron oven rack in the center of the island was the aforementioned frozen pizza, dripping with melted cheese and crisp with pepperoni. The man laughed when he saw the look on her face, then reached behind him to retrieve a plate for her. Iman took it, gratefully.

"Julien," he said after a beat.

Iman, midway through retrieving a pizza slice, looked up at him quizzically.

"That's my name," he offered. "I'm Julien."

"Iman," she allowed, then gestured at him. "You're not going to eat?"

He tensed momentarily, but whatever unrest she read on his face was gone as soon as it was there. "I will later," he said. "So—Iman. How is it that you ended up on my doorstep, exactly?"

As Iman ate her pizza, she weighed her options. On one hand, her parents had always cautioned her that secrecy was in her best interest. If word of your...abilities were to get out, she remembered her mother telling her, there's no telling what would happen. On the other, what would it hurt? The people she ran into while traveling were only passing strangers. She would never see them again.