'Face it (A prosopagnosic love story)', by Paul Velleman
Devon
I woke in my hotel room to the sound of birds singing and waves crashing against the Pacific coast. I turned to face the woman next to me.
“Good morning subtle one” (I’ve studied name roots. Her name, Alina, means “lean and subtle”. She got a kick out of that.)
She turned to me and smiled.
“Breakfast on the balcony?” she suggested.
I phoned in the order while she put on one of those heavy terrycloth robes that good hotels leave in the closet. I dressed the same way.
These Data Science conferences sure can pick resorts. It’s all that venture money in Silicon Valley. They get funded for cutting-edge research, but some funds leak out into parties and fancy conferences. I’m a poor academic, but I’ll play along. Trouble is, the conferences are full of nerds who focus on equations, software, and algorithms. These aren’t geeks—they have even worse social skills than that. It used to be mostly men, but now women have invaded, improving the vibe—but, unfortunately, not the social skills.
Alina was different. She had ample social skills. Sitting on the balcony, watching the waves and inhaling ocean air, we flexed our techie muscles talking about AI and how soon it could achieve sentience, and the blockchain and how NFTs were a pyramid scheme about to fall. A lovely morning after a very nice night.
We had met the previous evening at the conference reception. She was my type: slender with light brown hair and big blue eyes. Those cues are important to me. Early in our conversation, I had mentioned that I’m prosopagnosic. That is, I’m face blind. I can’t recognize or recall faces. I can see your face when I look at you, but once I turn away, I would have no mental image. I can see features—such as Alina’s blue eyes—but I can’t visualize her face. It isn’t as rare as you might think; the folks at faceblind.org (yes, there is such a site) claim it may affect as much as 2% of the population. You may have noticed the news that Brad Pitt is face blind. Poor sap. He’s divorced from Angelina Jolie and can’t picture her face.
But the point for me is that it's the sort of disability that has no major consequences but makes me a bit special and deserving of sympathy. Many women—especially the caretakers—are drawn to that. So I bring it up with women I meet whom I find attractive. Sometimes it helps.
It seemed to help with Alina. She was fascinated. At some point in our conversation, she excused herself to go to “fix her hair”. It wasn’t the least bit broken, but that’s as good a euphemism as any. After that, one thing led to another, and all those things led to my hotel room. There was no seduction or tricks; we both had the same idea.
In the room we dragged at each other’s clothes and admired each other’s bodies. At least, I admired hers. She had long legs, a cute ass, and an adorable tattoo of a teddy bear right between her shoulder blades.
“It’s for my grandmother, Ursula—the name means “little bear”. She always had my back. When she died, I put her there, so she’d still have my back. Nobody sees it, but I know she’s there.”
How marvelous, I thought. A nerd with a “backstory”.
It was a very good night.
I hadn’t expected any commitment. We were both single and had been clear about no complications. But now I wanted to know Alina better and see her again. That would require more than saying “see ya around” because I couldn’t—I might see someone who I thought was her, but I wouldn’t recognize her. And it isn’t polite to sleep with a woman and then just walk past her the next day and not recognize her. I needed to get her last name and cell phone before I let her go. I was thinking about how to get her number while we talked, and lost track of the time.
“We should get going,” I said suddenly. “The conference starts at 10. We’re pushing it. Let’s shower together” I smiled, “to save time.”
She demurred and lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Oh come on. After last night you can’t be bashful with me.”
“OK, I guess.”
In the shower, I offered to scrub her back and again she was reluctant. (Odd, I would have expected more embarrassment about her rather impressive front.) But I insisted and she turned around.
She had no tattoo!
This was not the woman I took to bed last night.
I’m often befuddled about faces, but about a tattoo on a naked woman in my shower? Not likely.
Of course, I can’t remember Alina’s face. When I turned to her first thing, I had no way of knowing I was looking at a new face. I can, of course, remember (fondly) other aspects of her body, but the body in front of me wasn’t that different. It was the same size and shape and coloration; same hair color and length—even the same big blue eyes. Those are the kinds of things I use to recognize people. It seemed Alina really was subtle. I needed an explanation.
I slipped out of the shower and, while Alina—or whoever she was—was drying off, I went into the bedroom and found her name tag: Alita (root means “truthful”—I wondered if she would be.) Could be I was mistaken about her name, I suppose. I’m used to being confused about faces and names, but, damnit, I can’t be confused about a tattoo that disappears.
Alita (if that was her name) came into the bedroom towelling her hair. She noticed that I had her name tag.
“Devon, I have a confession.”
Alita
My name is Alita.
This morning, I woke up in bed, naked and next to a guy I’d never met. And I wasn’t surprised. Let me explain.
I’m prosopagnosic.
It’s an odd disability. I didn’t know I had it until recently. I just thought I wasn’t very good at remembering people. Now I’ve been diagnosed, so I understand myself better. But it still troubles and depresses me. I think it’s harder on women than on men. A man who can’t remember names or faces is, perhaps, a bit odd, but we assume he’s preoccupied with his work or thinking about something else—society cuts him some slack. It isn’t the same for a woman. We’re the social sex and are delegated responsibility for relationships.
I’m a data scientist. These conferences are filled with nerds. They have lousy social skills, but they don’t forget people. It’s depressing as hell. I use other cues like hair color, height, build, or clothing style (of which most of these nerds have none—style, that is). But that’s only approximate and can lead to embarrassing situations. I’ll smile at someone I think I recognize, and he’ll think I'm a stranger coming on to him. Or I’ll greet someone by the wrong name.
Names! I’m terrible with them. You may think it’s easy to remember a name, but you probably hook that name to the face it goes with. I can’t do that. No hook. So even if I’m pretty sure I’ve met you before—or maybe you greet me—chances are I won’t recall your name.
It has made me bashful. My sister, Alina who on one introduction, can remember your name, partner’s name, pets, kids, hobbies, and probably your Zodiac sign, has tried to help. Like me, she’s a data scientist. When Alina and I are out together—say at a conference—she’ll prompt me:
“There’s Sam. You remember, the cute guy we met last April at the San Diego meetings. He develops that AI program called Whozit.”
That helps. When Sam gets in range, I can stick out my hand and say:
“Hey Sam! Long time since San Diego. How’s Whozit? Sentient yet?”
But about this guy I was in bed with. Yesterday, Alina had an inspiration. She’d met Devon at the conference reception. (I skipped the reception, of course. Too many opportunities to be embarrassed.) She thought he’d be perfect for me. But she knew I’d be too shy to meet him. She excused herself to go to the restroom, checked social media to be sure he was real and unmarried, and phoned me.
The exciting part is that he’d told her he’s prosopagnosic! So this was her plan. She’d seduce him. (Not hard for her.) Then during the night, we’d switch places. That way, I’d be able to check out Devon without any commitment. He wouldn’t know my name or cell number unless I offered them. Without contact info, he’d never be able to find me again.
That night she texted me his room number and we agreed on 3 a.m. for the swap. Alina set the vibrate alarm on her iWatch so it wouldn’t wake our “victim”. She slipped out of bed and opened the door. She gave him a “thumbs up” approval, and changed into my clothes, and I took her place in the still-warm bed. From the look and feel of things, she hadn’t sacrificed very much for me. The sheets were rumpled and Devon had a peaceful smile on his face. As I settled in, he roused a bit, slid over, and put his arm around me. I went with it.
In the morning, sure enough, Devon didn’t detect the swap. He greeted me as Alina. We wore hotel robes and had a lovely breakfast on the balcony watching the waves and listening to the birds. I could smell my sister on his body. (Not sure I liked that.) Alina and I often competed when we were growing up—she’s older by 2 years—but never for boys. I was reticent and couldn’t imagine that a boy would prefer me to Alina. But here I was with a male body that was (I was keenly aware) naked under his robe, and that Alina had tossed to me.
He’s a data analyst, so we speak the same technical language and didn’t have to fill empty space with inanities about politics or sports. We talked about the block chain and AI. Suddenly (it seemed), we had only 20 minutes to shower and dress before the morning sessions. Devon suggested showering together “to save time” (cute ploy). Now, keep in mind that I didn’t know this guy. I’d never showered with a man, but I couldn’t find a way to avoid it without raising his suspicions. He still thought I was my more daring sister. At least the shower would wash Alina off his body. I focused on that thought and on trying to be natural and relaxed. But I forgot: Alina has that silly teddy bear tattoo on her back.
(Oh shit.)
I tried to stay facing Devon in the shower, but he insisted on washing my back. And I was sure he noticed the absent tattoo because he got a quizzical look on his face. We prosopagnosics are used to being confused and second-guessing ourselves. But I could just see him thinking that this was more confusion than he could blame on face blindness.
He got out first and went into the bedroom.
I followed, towelling my hair. I lowered my eyes.
“Devon, I have a confession.”
“I was hoping you did. I’m a bit confused this morning.”
“You see, that wasn’t me in your bed last night."
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye to judge his reaction.
"I was figuring that much out.”
“That was my sister, Alina.”
He took me by my hips and gazed at my face, trying (futilely, I expect) to see how it differed from Alina’s.
"But why?”
“She thought I should meet you but didn’t want to introduce us the ordinary way.”
“Well, she sure succeeded at that.”
“Once Alina realized that you were a prosopagnosiac, she figured we were made for each other. You see, I’m also face blind.”
“Oh wow, you are? That’s cool. I’ve never met one. More precisely, I’ve never known I was meeting one. We need to share stories.”
(Looks like he’s not upset.)
“Alina thought we had a chance to make face blindness work in my favor. Also, she’s a bit of a bad-ass rebel. Her plan intrigued me. So the two of us engineered this swap.”
“What do we do now?” he asked, still holding me like he didn’t dare let go.
“That depends on how you feel about our trick. Frankly, I don’t want to just wander off. We wouldn’t recognize each other if we met again.”
“Of course,” he suggested slyly, “we could go back to bed and do what I thought we were doing last night.”
“No. I don’t know you.”
“An odd thing to say to someone you literally—and only—slept with, but I get your point”
“And we really should show up at the conference. Alina will worry if I’m not there. You could have been a murderer.”
“OK, but I’m not letting you go that easily (still holding my hips). Can I at least have a kiss?”
(That seemed fair—and what I wanted anyway.)
The grip on my hips became a hug and the hug became a kiss. He was a good kisser (Yes!) I could feel a day’s growth of beard on his face. The kiss lasted longer than it should, and we broke, laughing.
We swapped last names and cell phone numbers and agreed to meet for dinner.
Dinner was tasty but awkward. Devon seemed to think we had a tacit agreement to end up back in his room, and I wasn’t sure I liked that. Seemed like I was being taken for granted. Or taken for Alina. I didn’t want her seconds.
“Your parents chose interesting names for their daughters.”
“Yeah, at home we’re Lena and Leta—or sometimes even “na” and “ta”
“I like that. Could I call you “ta”?
“You don’t know me well enough for that yet. You had a conversation yesterday with my sister, but I don’t know you. If this is the start of a relationship, we need to figure out who we are and where we’re going.”
“OK, I’ll start: I’m 32, single, teach at Midcoast College, and own a beagle. No kids; one ex. I don’t smoke—well, not tobacco anyway. I practice tai chi and sing in an a capella group.
(See how precise a nerd can be? An entire biography in four sentences. And no real information. Who is this guy?)
“And you?”
“30, single, work at SoftOp.com. No ex, no kids, no pets.” (I can nerd with the best of ‘em.)
“Let’s take things slow. You’re right, we don’t know each other.”
(Oh shit, he’s being nice. I’ll bet he thinks it will make me fall for him. Might work.)
“I do know you about as well as I knew your sister yesterday.”
(Don’t bring up Alina if you want to catch me.)
“But I’m not her. I don’t want to be her. I move more cautiously than she does.”
“OK, I’ll fill in more. I live alone with my dog and work far too much. I sing for pleasure—my taste in music is mostly classical. And I read mostly non-fiction science, biography, and history. You?
(That’s a better match than I expected. I was getting interested.)
“I also live alone and work too much. My music taste is eclectic, but classical is good—I do go to concerts. These days, I read more politics.”
“What about your face blindness. What’s the worst experience you’ve had with it?”
“When I was just starting out at work, Steve Wozniac visited our site. You know, by the way, he’s face blind too. I didn’t recognize him and missed a chance to talk with him. You?”
“At a conference 5 years ago, I spent the night with a woman and didn’t get her cell number. The next day, I couldn’t find her in the crowd. She probably thought I was an asshole not to follow up. When did you learn you were face blind?”
“Only about 2 years ago. Until then I just thought I was bad at remembering people and bad with names.”
“I think we’re all like that. There are about 1000 people at this conference. On average, there should be about 20 prosopagnosics. I’ll bet only two or three besides us two know it. I was first diagnosed by the daughter of a friend who’d learned about it in class.”
We continued to swap stories of the prosopagnosiac life as we walked around the lush (and, I admit, romantic) resort campus. Each story brought another incident to mind—several I’d forgotten or never attributed to my disability before. And I started to relax. Devon slipped his arm around my waist while we walked. It felt natural, and I didn’t object.
I ventured, “I’m not making any promises, but IF we spend the night together, could you forget Alina?”
Devon turned to face me.
“Of course” he said solemnly. Then, with a sly grin “I can’t even remember her face.”
I fisted him in the ribs and grinned. This could be good.
Photography by Sue Michlovitz