He hacked away at his computer, and he would do so for the next eight hours. It wasn’t the grandest, most exciting job in the world, but it paid the bills – and rather well, in fact.
He’d tell himself every single day that the hours would pass quickly and it was just like fine-tuning a composition. But it was almost never just. Instead, it was like waging a war, overturning continent after continent in search for a secret weapon that had to be destroyed before it brought forth the apocalypse in T minus seven hours and fifty-three minutes.
But he would not be the patriotic soldier leading the front lines with courage and vigor. He’d be there among the troops, yes, but he’d be faking it. After all, there were other places he’d rather be, other things he’d rather do.
At five (finally), he’d be cross-eyed and ready to vomit if he ever saw another line of code. But five o’clock also meant a certain kind of freedom, one that he was always quick to accept, shedding his uniform and casting it aside for another day.
And by the time he’d arrive at the bar, his hands on his guitar and a beer on the table in front of him, he’d no longer be an impostor.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.