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Summary
The other girl just smiled, looking at Juliette with an intensity that made her hands sweat. She wiped them on the outside of her thighs, the satin of her pajama shorts doing little to absorb the sweat.
"You, uh, you still never told me your name."
The girl grinned. "Calliope."
Calliope uttered her name like it was the only word that mattered. Like it was the only word that existed for that matter. At this moment Juliette thought maybe that was right.
"Calliope," Juliette repeated. Calliope, Calliope, Calliope.
The muse of epic poetry, the goddess of eloquence, the mother of Orpheus. Juliette wouldn't be surprised if hundreds of thousands of years ago, the real muse looked a lot like the girl standing in front of her.
or
Juliette and Calliope share a dream before they ever even meet.
