Faces in the street

Arthur's occupation was stealing faces. Thankfully, those were in generous supply, streets being crowded as they were. He couldn't have said when this had started, but he knew for a fact he couldn't live without it. The very experience of putting on someone else's identity, no matter how shallow, was so rewarding that he would never again comply with having to look his own self.

There were side effects, of course. One was the total inability to lead any more or less consistent social life, but Arthur had never fancied having one in the first place. More disturbing, however, was the "hangover" period after the previous face wore out. It could last up to 24 hours and felt almost exactly like its post-alcohol counterpart, but was worsened by the confusion of not being able to tell who you were in reality. He dealt with that by having a stiff drink or three.

He sometimes wondered whether the ones he stole from could feel anything. He supposed not, as they never as much as flinched during the procedure. He ascribed that to the general human insensitivity that never failed to perplex him. He could hardly believe he had ever been like those errand-running, goods-consuming nonentities. But their faces, ah, their faces...

The only thing that made him doubt the course he had chosen was the mirror.