seven #2
“I make a modest living which affords me some luxuries. I’m sure it's nothing like what you’re used to.”
I try to get a hold onto my temper. Callisto may not have meant it the way it sounded, but at the same time, he has said similar things to me before.
It wouldn’t be the first time he has been condescending and rude, and he seems the type to love a backhanded compliment.
I glance down at the pan in my hand, the noise of the rough sponge scrubbing the surface and the water flowing from the faucet, the only sounds filling up the space.
“My house is nicer, but I think it is pretty modest given who I am, and how much my family is worth. My parents house, for example, is four times as big. It’s on a cliff, overlooking the ocean with the finest security. They have a full staff of people, when I only have a cook, a maid,
a couple of security guards, and an assistant.”
Callisto’s description almost sounds defensive.
“You’re so spoiled,” I finally reply, shaking my head but still not making eye contact.
I bite my tongue, so I don't say more. It’s hard though, I want to wake Callisto up, but at the same time I don't know why.
I shouldn’t care. He is nothing but temporary to me, so I don't know why I’m so invested.
“I am not.” The outrage is evident in Callisto’s voice. He can’t be serious. I look up, finding his eyes vibrant. My anger rising, I sit the pan in the dish rack with a loud bang, turn off the water swiftly, then angrily dry my hands with a dish towel.
“Let me ask you something,” I start, my voice even despite the liquid fire flowing through my veins.
I throw the hand towel on the counter, none too gently.
Callisto looks at it for a split second before his eyes come back to me.
“How much money do you spend on clothes a month? Just clothes. Around one grand?”
He scoffs at the question, and my eyes narrow.
“It depends on the month, but my winter coat alone cost four thousand dollars.” I barely mask my shocked expression at his answer. He shuts the dishwasher door, making no move to turn it on—a silent admission that he has absolutely no clue how.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Four thousand fucking dollars? For a goddamned coat? Is the thread made of unicorn hair and the buttons forged from the scales of a dragon?”
I ask, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
He looks confused, as if he’s taking what I’m saying literally, but then his face morphs into anger.
“No, it’s wool. It’s designer.” Callisto’s voice has gotten high and shrill, as if saying that its designer makes it so much better.
I shake my head with a humorless laugh. This feels like the twilight zone or some shit.
He can’t actually believe spending four thousand dollars on a coat is normal, but the look on Callisto’s face tells me otherwise.
He not only thinks it’s normal but acceptable.
“So, because it’s designer, that means it’s worth it?”
I ask, and Callisto nods his head, as if it’s obvious.
“I don’t understand. You said it is made of wool. My coat is made of wool as well, and I spent a very small fraction of that amount on it, plus it is a few years old. The only difference is yours has a designer label. So that makes it better?
Even though it is made out of the exact same material as mine, you spent four thousand dollars on yours?”
Callisto’s large mouth gapes after my speech.
“It is pretty clear that you just don’t understand fashion.”
Callisto regains his footing a bit, barely sputtering on the response.
I was waiting for that answer. It’s the same thing people say about art.
If someone voices not liking it, then it is automatically because that person must not understand it. I don't care to understand it, though.
Callisto continues, “That’s a special item though, on average, I spend probably somewhere between three and four thousand dollars a season.”
“And that’s just on clothes?” I confirm, again, trying to keep my voice neutral even though I’m still very much annoyed.
I could fucking scream, and I can tell Callisto is already getting irritated by the conversation.
He shuts himself off, crossing his arms in front of his chest, tanned unmarked skin stretched over taut muscles.
“Yeah. That’s not including shoes, or accessories like hand bags, hats, or sunglasses. Oh, or maintenance like manicures and pedicures or even facials,” Callisto rattles off as if he can't stop himself, and my head spins.
“Wow. You have no concept of how the real world works.” Shock bleeds into my voice as a humorless chuckle slips past my lips. I place my hand on the counter, needing something to do other than ball it into a fist and stop myself from punching the spoiled bastard in the face.
“It’s not my fault people are poor, and I was born wealthy! So why do I have to pay for it?”
Callisto’s voice is shrill, almost on the verge of whiney as he gestures wildly, almost hitting the cabinets in the process.
A pang of what could only be described as hurt punches through my chest, but it quickly morphs into anger.
I can’t even fucking believe it. Did he seriously say that?
I ball my hands into fists resisting the urge to strangle the fucker.
“So, you’re saying they deserve to be poor?” I take a step closer to Callisto. He doesn’t move back, but he’s watching me with wide eyes. I don't see fear within them, more curiosity and anger, as if he refuses to back down.
“No…” The word is weak as it trails off because he doesn’t seem to know what else to add. His mouth is open, gasping for air. He looks around the room as if the toaster will provide the answer as to why some people in the world deserve to be poor.
“Then what the fuck are you saying?” My voice drops low once more as the question comes out of barely parted lips and gritted teeth. I’m fuming, but I cannot strangle the pretty rich boy, yet. Peadar would kill me first off and, secondly, I don't actually know if I want Callisto dead.
“I don’t know! Just that it’s not my fault, and there isn’t anything I can do about poverty.”
Callisto crosses his arms over his chest again as if he is trying to protect himself from my scrutiny.
He’s breathing heavily now, his chest heaving under his borrowed shirt.
A few seconds tick by, but the sight does nothing to quiet the chaos in my chest.
I always get angry when the rich dismiss poor people simply because they aren’t as lucky as them.
“You could use some of that goddamned money to keep people alive,” I say, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register as I step closer. I know how much I needed money to keep me alive.
“My father gives to charity,” Callisto fires back, his chin lifting defensively, though his voice lacks real weight. He uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his side. I take a step closer. We are now inches apart.
A harsh, humorless laugh cuts from my throat. “Just because your daddy signs a couple of tax write-off each year so he can sip overpriced champagne at galas doesn’t mean he gives a single fuck about the people on the streets!” I yell, my breath whooshing over Callisto’s face. He flinches this time.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Callisto, open your fucking eyes! There are kids sleeping under the bridges downtown. Teens who got kicked out with nothing but the clothes on their backs, starving in the freezing mud while you’re crying over the fact that your overpriced clothes are out of season.
Donating a fraction of your allowance isn’t a fucking hobby. It’s the difference between some kid waking up tomorrow or freezing to death on a piece of cardboard that they call a home.”