Masks

Melinda's talking a mile a minute before she even walks through the front door, about whatever latest news vid caught her excitement on the rail ride home, the same as she's done every weekday for the past six years that we've lived together. Her enthusiasm is just one of the many idiosyncrasies that draw me to her.

"Oh, Jason, it's the greatest thing! Just think. You could choose anything you wanted. They mold and craft them to your specifications. Before long, the tech will be cheap enough you could have a selection. One for every day of the week, or month! Hey, you wouldn't have to keep that secret calendar anymore. One look at my face in the morning, and you'd know it was the day to lay low!" She laughs, winking.

I've been so caught up in enjoying the expressions that cross her face, I have to catch up to the content. "Wait, a selection of what?"

"Why, faces, of course. Have you heard any of what I've been saying?"

I watch her familiar look of exasperated patience as I process her response and begin to sputter. "But, I love your face. It's yours! It's the one I love to wake up to every morning."

"The others would be mine too, silly. I'd own the exclusive rights, after all. I could finally change that little bump on my nose on the days it drives me crazy. It could be such fun!" She heads to the kitchen, taking my capitulation for granted, as she has always done.

"But, why? All those faces would just be masks!"

She turns to me, her expression a portrait of wide-eyed surprise. "Aren't they all?"