100 Yellow Doors

november 18th, 1990, 11:23 a.m.

"Perfect timing," said Julien, swinging open his front door and ushering Iman into the living room. Iman was surprised to find it transformed into an art studio. "What does this look like to you?"

Iman's mind was still spinning from the trip; she had to stop and gather herself for a moment before she could make sense of all the colors on the easel in front of her. "A rabbit?" she tilted her head. "Maybe a tree if I tilt my head this way. A tree rabbit?"

Julien rested his chin on his fingers, frowning. There was a streak of emerald paint along his cheek, his hands and arms a checkerboard of acrylic colors. Iman didn't remember ever hearing about any art aspirations—from any version of Julien she'd met, ever. Was this a secret hobby he'd been keeping from her?

Julien sighed. "I was going for a kangaroo."

"A kangaroo?"

"A kangaroo."

Iman tilted her head more in the other direction, narrowing her eyes to slits. "I...see it?"

"Oh, don't flatter me," Julien said, shucking off his smock and tossing it in no particular direction other than away. He stalked into the kitchen like an insolent child, poured two glasses of water, and offered one to Iman. "How fragile do you assume my ego is?"

"Very," said Iman. She only half-meant it.

Julien bared his teeth at her, lifting his glass to his lips. Properly hydrated, he returned to his easel, this time dipping a large flat brush in a vat of white paint and taking almost violent strokes at his canvas. "So," he called over his shoulder. "Are you going to tell me what's got you so sulky?"

"Sulky?" Iman said, her posture straightening. She hadn't thought she'd been very sulky. Did she look sulky? "I—"

"Did you fight with someone? Did someone fight with you? Is it your deplorable sister again?"

"Hey. Only I can call her deplorable."

"Whatever," Julien said. He swiveled and practically glared at her. "Tell me. I won't offer any advice if you don't want. I'll just listen."

She exhaled. Julien was always good at this, no matter how long he'd been alive. He always knew what people wanted to hear, and sometimes, that was nothing.

"I fought with B—a friend," Iman said. She clambered for words, trying to sidestep around anything that may take a lot of explaining. Though Julien had told her she was in November 1990, she still couldn't be sure what Julien knew and what he didn't. Keeping things vague was the only way to keep from confusing either herself or Jules. "Someone I know...is sort of facing a threat right now? I don't know. And this friend of mine really just didn't get why I cared so much. I don't know how to make him understand."

For a long time, all she heard was the somewhat rhythmic swoosh swoosh as Julien dragged his brush along the canvas. Iman got to her feet, wandering into the living room and watching Julien paint over his shoulder.

"I yelled at him," she confessed. "It was bad."

Still, Julien was silent. Iman watched his face for any reaction, any sign of emotion or thought about what she'd just said, but he was still.

Julien set down his large brush and reached for a detailer instead. "Don't prioritize me over other people, Iman. That's a good way to end up alone."

"Wait," Iman started, perplexed. "I never—"

He looked at her sharply, his dark eyebrows risen. It was enough to shut her up.

"The people you love don't have endless lives. Neither do you. It will all end one day, but not for me. I'll still be here," Julien said. He drew a clean line down the edge of his tree rabbit with the brush—precise, spotless, as if he'd been doing so for years. "It's not worth it to spend all your time on someone who has too much time of their own. Give your time to those whose lives are more precious. You get me?"

"Julien—"

"Amor, do you get me?"

She crumpled, her shoulders falling. "I get you."

Julien grinned, pleased. "So go make up with that friend of yours. You don't have all the time in the world, even if you feel like you do."

He set his brush back in the old mug in which he was storing it, and took a step back. "Well," he asked, nudging Iman's shoulder. "How does it look now?"

Iman tilted her head again. "Less rabbit now," she said. "More tree."

Julien shook his head, his nose crinkling in disgust. "Screw this," he said. "I'm moving on to crocheting."