Second Skin

This wasn't rejected. It was actually accepted at a now defunct short fiction site. Anyway:

Second Skin

“Who do imagine I am when we make love?”

The question was hardly a surprise. In simpler times it meant a looming divorce, but not today. Not in an age where fantasy became reality at the touch of a button. Or a thought.

“You don’t answer. What’s wrong?”

No one was themselves anymore. It was ironic, given how people had behaved in the past. Back when it was cool to complain in forums and blogs that technology would isolate humanity. The irony was lost on them, as it was now.

“Talk to me.” Her aura was red. Not good.

People today appeared as you imagined them. Augmented eyes created supermodel bodies on frumpy frames. No one exercised. They didn’t need to.

The irony was that technology still isolated us, even as it brought us back together. Physical contact was restored, but the extra coat of paint we wore had us more alone than ever.

“I pretend it’s you,” I said, tiring of the ritually completely.

Her aura turned bright blue. Happy.

I imaged her as the housewife from next door, and she was.