Leto kept a Face on a small table by the front door for convenience. He also kept a Face near the back door, the vidphone, and his bathroom mirror. He didn’t need a Face in the bedroom since the full-body mirror in his closet sat low enough to ensure it only captured him below the neck.

 

He’d spent the day cleaning and preparing snacks for tonight’s movie, when his wife would stop by for their weekly evening together.

 

Ding. Ding.

 

Leto quickly gave the living room and kitchen areas a last glance of approval before rushing to greet his wife, Vivian. He slipped on his Face, brushed back his hair, and opened the door. “Hey Viv! You look stunning. I love that dress.”

 

Vivian’s Face emoted a smile and blushed on the cheek-points. She was sporting her husband’s favorite dress: wide at the shoulders, slightly plunged neckline, narrowed at the waist with a length falling mid-thigh. She bumped his Face with hers resulting in a kissing sound before complimenting Leto, “You look so handsome tonight.”

 

Leto’s Face smiled with gratitude. He had worn the sweater Viv bought him for Christmas and his light-green corduroy pants. “Thank you, my dear. I hope you’re hungry for all your favorite snacks.”

As he motioned for Vivian to make her way to the living room, Leto reflected on how no one co-habitated anymore. This outdated practice from centuries past had been replaced with couples maintaining separate abodes. This made it easier to avoid awkward mishaps that so easily happened when living together.

 

The connection made from seeing someone’s Face was no longer proper etiquette. Eyes were particularly taboo. Whoever coined the phrase, “The eyes are the window to the soul,” understood precisely how raw and revealing looking into someone’s eyes could be. Society had solved this problem generations ago through digital Faces.

 

A Face was worn over one’s own natural birth-face. Forehead to chin was obfuscated by a digital display, leaving ears and hair exposed. The screen conveyed expressions. The Face bearer could see out, but neither their eyes nor birth-face features were visible to others. The mask’s settings either relayed your true feelings via neural sensors or reflected an interpreted emotion from your underlying birth-face. A smile meant happy, a frown for sad, and so on. The last one was the commonly accepted default mode.

 

Leto and Vivian sat on the couch. “Want to watch a movie?” he asked.

 

“Yes. What’s playing?” Vivia’s Face beamed with love and joy that she presumably felt.

 

As Leto mechanically shared the name of the movie he had chosen, he forced a smile across his birth-face and batted his eyes to cause a happy and loving Face to show on the display. Inside he felt empty, alone, and forgotten. He had never seen Vivian’s natural face, her lips, or her soul-telling eyes.

 

The couple settled back in each others’ arms to watch “Legend of the Fey” as Leto’s despair deepened. When the film ended, Vivian clapped with delight, her Face showing a brilliant white smile with teeth exposed — this was considered the most happy Face. But Leto’s Face was dark. The line of his mouth was thin as a thread with the corners turned down. His eyes were merely tiny pixel dots.

 

“Leto, what’s wrong?” Vivian asked.

 

“This. This charade. How can you be happy in this disconnected shell?” Leto motioned to her body, moving his open hands up and then down.

 

“What do you mean? Aren’t you happy?”

 

“No,” Leto shouted. Standing, he began pacing the room. “I’ve studied it, you know? The eyes — did you know they are supposed to be the window to a person’s soul? Your soul? My soul? Why are we forbidden to see each other deeply?”

 

Vivian stood speechless. Her Face now portrayed wide, open eyes as hollow circles and a circle-shaped mouth to match.

“Stop it!” Leto yelled again. “I hate these masks. These Faces. This is not my face.” Leto yanked the digital covering off his head and shattered it against the kitchen counter.

 

Vivian screamed. A look of horror flashed on her Face, this time in red. She ran for the door shielding her eyes from his stare. Leto chased after her.

“Vivian! Wait. I just want to be with you. Really with you.”

Vivian’s screams had already caused the neighbors to pour out into the street. When Leto emerged from the doorway, he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

Every Face, up and down the street, flashed red with fear emotions. “What’s wrong?” Leto asked, puzzled.

People began charging towards him, descending like vultures to the remains of some forgotten roadkill. Then he realized: he was Faceless. His horrid, rancid birth-face stood naked, offending the others. Their exposed souls could not comprehend the experience. They instinctively attacked the source of their pain — Leto.

 

Moments later, Leto sat handcuffed on the edge of his lawn, blood crusted along his cheekbone where a neighbor had struck him. The crowd stood back, murmuring among themselves — not with fear or disgust, but quiet relief. A municipal drone hovered overhead, recording everything.

 

Someone had draped a borrowed Face over him. It didn’t fit quite right, the edges flickering where his skin still peeked through. But it was enough. The offense was covered.

 

Officers conferred in low voices near the curb. Court or containment, the decision would be procedural.

 

Across the street, a child tugged at her mother's coat and asked what the man had done. The mother replied, “He forgot himself.”

 

The girl nodded and looked away.

 

By the time the transport arrived, the crowd had begun to disperse. They didn’t look at Leto anymore, not because they feared him, but because, once again, he was no longer visible.