Marriage and Social Expectations Theme Analysis

In the mirror of the medicine cabinet, he inspected his long eyelashes—like a girl’s, Twinkle liked to tease. Though he was of average build, his cheeks had a plumpness to them; this, along with the eyelashes, detracted, he feared, from what he hoped was a distinguished profile. He was of average height as well, and had wished ever since he stopped growing that he were just one inch taller. For this reason, it irritated him when Twinkle insisted on wearing high heels, as she had done the other night when they ate dinner in Manhattan.

Sanjeev had found the house on his own before leaving for the wedding, for a good price, in a neighborhood with a fine school system. […] There were two working fireplaces, a two-car garage, and an attic suitable for converting into extra bedrooms if, the Realtor mentioned, the need should arise. By then Sanjeev had already made up his mind, was determined that he and Twinkle should live there together, forever, and so he had not bothered to notice the switch plates covered with biblical stickers, or the transparent decal of the Virgin on the half shell, as Twinkle likes to call it, adhered to the window in the master bedroom. When, after moving in, he tried to scrape it off, he scratched the glass.

Though she did not say it herself, he assumed then that she loved him too, but now he was no longer sure. In truth, Sanjeev did not know what love was. In truth, he had decided, returning to an empty carpeted condominium each night, and using only the top fork in his cutlery drawer, and turning away politely at those weekend dinner parties when the other men eventually put their arms around the waists of their wives and girlfriends, leaning over every now and again to kiss their shoulders or necks. It was not sending away for classical music CDs by mail, working his way methodically through the major composers that the catalogue recommended, and always sending his payments in on time.

It occurred to Sanjeev that he had the house all to himself.

The music had ended and he could hear, if he concentrated, the hum of the refrigerator, and the rustle of the last leaves on the trees outside, and the tapping of their branches against the window panes. With one flick of his hand he could snap the ladder back on its spring into the ceiling, and they would have no way of getting down unless he were to pull the chain and let them. He thought of all the things he could do, undisturbed. He could sweep Twinkle's menagerie into a garbage bag and get in the car and drive it all to the dump, and tear down the poster of weeping Jesus, and take a hammer to the Virgin Mary while he was at it. Then he would return to the empty house; he could easily clear up the cups and plates in an hour's time, and pour himself a gin and tonic, and eat a plate of warmed rice and listen to his new Bach CD while reading the liner notes so as to understand it properly. He nudged the ladder slightly, but it was sturdily planted against the floor. Budging it would require some effort.

Now he saw that her hands were wrapped around it: a solid silver bust of Christ, the head easily three times the size of his own. It had a patrician bump on its nose, magnificent curly hair that rested atop a pronounced collarbone, and a broad forehead that reflected in miniature the walls and doors and lampshades around them. Its expression was confident, as if assured of its devotees, the unyielding lips sensuous and full. It was also wearing Nora’s feather hat.

[…]

[Twinkle] took a breath, raised her eyebrows, crossed her fingers, “Would you mind terribly if we displayed it on the mantel? Just for tonight? I know you hate it.”

He did hate it. He hated its immensity, and its flawless, polished surface, and its undoubtable value. He hated that it was in his house, and that he owned it. Unlike the other things they’d found, this contained dignity solemnity, beauty even. But to his surprise these qualities made him hate it all the more. Most of all he hated it because he knew Twinkle loved it.