Hey warriors, and welcome to another wonderful Sunday with Weekend Writing Warriors. I have been quite busy with editing, and sweating bullets over trying to get out some new stuff: I have so many stories, so many beginnings, but it's challenging to not only start, but finish them. Imposter is one of those short stories that I finished, and these are the first 8 sentences. Click on the cover to read the whole story. :)
The credit cards and some of the passports were next to him on the car seat. He drove an old Volvo, a 500 Dollar beat-up car, fully aware of the impression it conveyed to the outside world; metallic silver with a few spots of partly peeled off colour, bruises and bumps along the left side. It was a poor man’s car and he knew from experience, that because it was somewhat obvious for a poor man to also drive a poor man’s car, in many ways it was less suspicious than going the opposite route. No one ever suspected an imposter to actually drive a beat-up car.
Imposter. He hated that word. It didn’t even come close to how he saw himself in the world. He was a good person, a likeable guy, someone who easily made friends with people; preferably women.
His most recent project was a woman named Augustine Cooper. The name initially triggered images of old gooses, but after watching her from his car, Paul had to acknowledge that Augustine looked incredibly young for a woman her age. She wore makeup, and tastefully so, and her hair, albeit neat and long, was taken in to a sleek bun. Observing how she treated herself, he immediately pegged her as someone with serious demands and expectations regarding men. 
Paul was used to sitting around, since most of the time, his job entailed waiting, watching and carefully planning his steps. He had long outgrown the phase of tackling his target like a bull to the gate. That kind of mistake had been part of his novice years. Just like that one time, when he pushed himself on an old lady to get at least some kind of result before she went on her vacation and she got suspicious and called the police. Marriage imposter was the ugly word she had used; and it stung. Paul had to leave the city in a hurry, get new ID, and all for wanting too much too soon. Eventually he accepted that he would have to move at a different pace, learning that time, as he knew he had plenty of, was his ally.
Paul was in his twenties and just barely a man when his grandmother passed away. He remembered the date with great clarity, the broiling day in July under a cloudless sky; a mockery to how he had felt on the inside. Seeing all the people on his way back from her house, living their lives as if this was just any other day. He observed them from the shade, powerless, shivering. There was no caesura, no change in the world, and it sickened him to think that the universe responded by brushing him off with a flawless summer day.
