Hidden Things by Doyce Testerman

more information.”
    â€œI will,” she said, her voice soft. “Promise.”
    â€œGood.”
    He hung up. Calliope stood, facing the counter for a few more seconds. Then she shook herself, set the phone down, and picked up the mug.
    The mug filled with coffee.
    Which she’d fixed without consciously realizing what she was doing.
    It smelled really good.
    She let out an explosive, wordless sound of annoyance, dumped the mug in the sink, and stalked out of the kitchen.

    Calliope stood in front of her mirror, wringing water out of her hair with a towel, her eyes tracking the dark water spots across the shoulders of the clean T-shirt she’d pulled on after her shower. Behind her, in the mirror, the bed was rumpled, the sheets twisted—proof enough of a bad night’s sleep, even if she couldn’t also feel it in her neck and back.
    â€œYou always wake up so gracefully.”
    She scowled and tossed the towel over the shower rack, then started for the door of the bedroom. But she lost momentum and stopped after only a few steps. The crease across her brow deepened.
    â€œMake sure you know your reasons.”
    Still facing the mirror, she turned her head, wincing at the pain in her neck, and checked the clock. Still morning. Early. Most of the day to kill, banned from the office.
    â€œBut those aren’t the only old files to check,” she murmured.
    She finger-combed damp hair out of her face, blew out a long breath, and glared at the disheveled bed lurking behind her in the mirror.
    Reaching behind her, she twisted her hair into a loose knot, turned, stepped up to the bed, and tugged the covers into an approximation of order. That done, she dropped into a crouch, reached underneath the bed and, after several half-voiced growls and curses, fished out two oversized, dust-coated shoe boxes, one labeled BAND STUFF ; the other, NOT BAND STUFF .
    She swiped at BAND STUFF with the edge of her hand and wiped the resulting film of dust on her jeans as she flipped the lid up.
    Unlabeled demo CDs lay in a stack on top of several T-shirts folded with the rigid precision and sharp edges of an American flag presented to a soldier’s widow. The other end of the box was a collection of flyers from clubs throughout Silverlake and Echo Park, bar coasters, clippings of reviews, and a small jumble of junk masquerading as mementos. All told, the box was two-thirds full, arranged like a memorial shrine for a distant relative.
    Calliope riffled the edges of the CD cases, rolled her eyes at the ridiculously overenthusiastic headlines, and flipped the lid shut before pushing the box to the side.
    Sitting back on her heels, she pulled the second box to her and hooked her fingers under the rubber bands that held the bent, center-bulging lid of not band stuff in place. The smooth outward tug pulled both rubber bands off simultaneously with a muffled snap-pop, and the lid immediately eased upward a half inch. Calliope lifted it and set it aside, scanning a heaped stack of paper and photos that—as far as organization went—had more in common with a clothes hamper than the band box that sat nearby.
    The topmost slip of paper—a barely legible handwritten note—slid off the stack and onto the floor. Calliope picked it up, thumbed it open, and tipped her head to read the words she already knew.
    Â 
    Hiya!
    Â 
    I think I found an APARTMENT!
    I know we said we were going to wait to look at an APARTMENT.
    But it’s a good APARTMENT.
    You should see this APARTMENT.
    It’s a good APARTMENT.
    I love you, and will listen better next time.
    Â 
    â€”Josh
    Â 
    P.S. APARTMENT!
    Â 
    She refolded the note and set it back in place. Leaning forward, she picked up the overstuffed box, rose up, and dumped the contents onto the bed.

    â€œI want a face to kiss.”
    Calliope, curled up in an overstuffed chair widely considered the ugliest and most comfortable in the city, speaks (loudly) to