“I’ve thought about it and I get it. When you meet someone, it’s best to admit right away that you’re materially poor. That way, you’ll understand how rich in spirit the person in front of you is. If they’re a good, understanding person and willing to believe in your potential bright future, or a future for you both, you can truly be happy you met them. And know, you’re a real lucky one. But if a person is poorer in spirit than you are materially, you’ll immediately notice how smiles become fewer, the number of words spoken minimizes, and previously frequent meetings cease. All interest in you will just fade away. What’s more, it will turn out there was none at all. Don’t waste your precious life on people who are poor in spirit. Don’t be afraid to say, lightly and simply, ‘I am a pauper’. The magic phrase will instantly free you from people with shallow souls and enrich you with real people.”
“Oh, did you get dumped again?” the best friend guesses with a smirk.
“Not dumped, but smoothly lost,” the guy says with a sad smile.
“Well, what did you expect? Almost no one cares about your personality without money. Think about it—who’s going to bother believing in your potential and possible bright future? Everyone wants to see and use what you have right now. Of course, no one likes wasting time on a person who has nothing at the moment. Don’t worry, you’ll find your real, sincere love. And everything will be just as you wish.”
“I already barely believe in that pipe dream. Unicorns seem much more real to me now. And, what’s more, I at least see unicorns in my dreams, but not a single image of love has ever flashed in my life.”
“Okay, I understand your principle about the richness of the human spirit. Explain this, though. Why are you searching so hard for a soulmate when you have nothing? You understand perfectly well yourself. You can’t build any relationship without money these days. Unless it’s based on miracles and soulful magic, like in all your unrealistic fantasies about life.”
“That’s exactly why I’m rushing to find true, sincere, and eternal love while I have nothing, so that I can get rich materially with a girl who is just as rich in spirit.”
“And what makes you think you’re rich in spirit yourself?” the best friend asks, scrutinizing him suspiciously, deep in thought.
“I want to believe that,” the naive guy confesses with a smile. “I accept that I am materially poor. And I’d gladly accept a girl who has nothing, so we can reach the peak of life’s dreams together. You could call this phenomenon faith in myself and in the future us.”
“Oh, you. How is that youthful romance still alive inside you?” the friend can’t hold back his laughter, amazed by the guy’s restless spirit.
“It gets harder every time to light the romantic fire in my soul when yet another girl douses it with a bucket of icy indifference. But I’ll never let my living flame be extinguished.”
“Wait. Why do you call yourself a pauper? You don’t have any debts, and you do have money, even if it’s not much.”
“I’m checking the reaction in case of a possible unsuccessful future.”
“Do you even believe in your successful future?”
“The way you say that, it’s like I have a choice,” the naive romantic smirks. “I’m destined to be rich and happy. That’s why I’m looking for a girl who will believe in me just as much as I believe in myself, in her, and in us.”
“Yeah, you’re going to have a rough time,” the best friend smirks, preemptively sympathizing with the coming trials of his close friend.
“I’m ready for any difficulties, knowing exactly what this is all for.”
“So, what’s your further plan of action? If you even have one.”
“I’ll just keep doing what I originally decided to do,” the romantic states with a calm smile.
“It’s you and your books again,” the best friend smirks. “You’ve already annoyed everyone with them. At the mere mention of your books, everyone rolls their eyes. Aren’t you sick of it yourself?”
“Have I annoyed you too?” the naive romantic asks, deeply upset for the first time, clarifying to his only friend heavily and without emotion.
“Are you kidding me?” the best friend laughs. “It’s the best thing you could have possibly chosen out of a million different options. Keep going!”
“I hope you’re not lying,” the romantic squints suspiciously.
“And how could I lie to a writer who creates and knows the fate of everyone in the Universe? And who can recognize any emotion from a single fleeting glance. Even without looking into their eyes.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” chuckles the humble ruler of fictional, and sometimes not-so-fictional, worlds and fates.
“And you—don’t waste any time! The whole world is waiting for the great deeds and accomplishments of an outstanding writer. Hurry up and change the world!”
“Stop laughing at me,” the romantic objects more seriously.
“Ah, if I were only laughing at you,” the best friend sighs heavily. “I sincerely envy you with all my soul and every thought.”
“There’s nothing to envy,” the tired, frustrated romantic laughs. “Everyone shies away from me like I’m crazy.”
“And you think, by doing what you love and remaining a pauper in everyone’s eyes, you’ll look normal?” the best friend smirks. “And why do you need everyone? Am I not enough?” he looks suspiciously into eyes filled with heavy doubt and absolute certainty.
“More than enough,” the romantic assures him with a smile. “All that’s left is to find the one, the only one. And my life will be perfect. Then you can envy me. I’ll even envy myself.”
“Wow, you’re aiming high,” the best friend keeps chuckling. “You’re already doing what you love. You have a real best friend. You know, everyone will envy you if you find real love too. Things like that just don’t happen in life.”
“But what’s the point of living without it?” the romantic asks with a sad smile, imagining an empty and worthless variation of life. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks or how things should be according to people. I know exactly what I want and what my life will be like. I’ll do everything possible and impossible. You’ll see, I’ll succeed.”
“Well, the pauper strategy works so far,” the best friend laughs.
“It’s worked flawlessly for many years,” the naive romantic joins the laughter, secretly recalling all the sad moments.
“So, where do you plan to start your new life? Or continue the old one?” the best friend asks uncertainly.
“There’s no point in carrying on in the same way if you want real change. I truly need a new life. And for that, I need to act differently, in a new way.”
“Wait a second,” the friend muses. “You just said you weren’t going to quit writing. Literally a minute ago.”
“I’m not going to. Now I’m not just doing writing. I live it. I need to come up with a new strategy. Since the old one failed and didn’t give me the desired result.”
“Maybe you should get some rest first? You look kind of tense,” he watches his tired best friend’s sharp, slightly nervous movements suspiciously.
“Why would I be tense?” the romantic smirks. “I’m just a little angry at the circumstances, at fate, and at myself. There’s nothing new or terrible about that. I’m actually lucky. It could be much worse. I might not have the true work of my life.”
“And I completely agree with you there,” the best friend smirks, recalling the sad stories of most of their mutual acquaintances.
“See?” the romantic smiles contentedly and proudly. “All I need to do is come up with a winning strategy. The rest is just a matter of technique.”
“Oh, sure, all you need to do is come up with a maximally winning strategy for unseen, pure success,” the friend smirks.
“Or just act blindly, relying on the unpredictable will of chance, a constantly mistaken inner voice, and inborn intuition that is usually silent. And the right steps will just appear over time. The main thing is that they lead me to the right place at the right time. Not like what always happens to me.”
“I’d like to see that,” the best friend chuckles openly.
“Tell me, do you really believe in my success, or are you just like everyone else?” the naive romantic asks seriously, hoping for an honest answer.
“I am your guaranteed success,” the interlocutor assures him seriously.
“You know, I prefer to regard even your presence in my thoughts as a real friendship. At least, a friendship with myself. And that’s not bad. But the path to success is something else entirely.”
“Is it something else?” the best friend protests mentally, disagreeing. “Friendship with your true inner world is already a sure path to success. And only I can confidently guarantee victory in any endeavor. After all, if I give up, you’ll perish too.”
“And you can’t argue with yourself,” the romantic agrees resignedly. “So when am I finally going to start making friends with real people?”
“When you find them among the unreal ones, which is most people,” the best friend reminds him. “You’re constantly on the active search, after all.”
“It’s not that active,” the romantic replies with a laugh.
“Alright, forget about real people for now. Talk to the new characters in your future book,” the best friend suggests.
“I have to create them first,” the romantic says, thinking seriously.
“What’s the problem, man?” the friend asks, surprised. “Start with me!”
“You’re not a new character,” the romantic openly doubts. “You’re constantly chattering in my thoughts. You’re the only one I hear.”
“Then make me a new character. And I’ll become a distinct, unique personality. Not just your constant, hidden reflection,” the old mental friend eagerly pushes.
“Do you really want to be the first hero in the new book?” the naive romantic asks, pleasantly surprised. “Or are you making fun of me?”
“I’ve been the hero of all your books for a long time,” the best friend declares confidently and proudly. “Before, I voiced your words in the readers’ thoughts, but now I want to speak for myself, with my own clear voice.”
“Fine,” the romantic smirks. “You’ll have a role in my book.”
“The main role!” the best friend insists, sensing opportunity.
“I don’t promise anything,” the romantic laughs, hearing his best friend’s emotions.
“What do you mean, you don’t promise anything?” the interlocutor objects. “Who’s the author’s best friend? Who is constantly with you, even if only in thought? Who supports you always and in everything? I’m your closest one!”
“Do you want to get a role through a connection?” the author smirks.
“You know yourself that I’ve long deserved the main role in the book,” the best friend says with increasing confidence in his thoughts, feeling superiority over all the other fictional heroes of their shared books. “I’m the only real one among all the mental voices, after all.”
“Everything’s relative,” the romantic smirks. “You’re real to me. But you don’t exist for everyone else, and nobody knows about you.”
“Then create me officially and introduce me to the world!” the best friend has chosen the path of world fame and isn’t going to retreat under any circumstances. That is their common trait with the author.
“Fine,” the naive romantic sighs heavily. “So be it. Maybe your character is exactly what will lead us to success.”
“Wonderful!” the best friend smiles contentedly. “It’s about time!”
“I’ll make you a character. But you must always stay yourself. Under any circumstances, no matter how the plot turns out.”
“That’s no problem at all,” the best friend agrees readily.
“Then, to start, choose a name for yourself. Any name you like best. One that reflects the real you.”
“How can I choose a name if you’re always the one naming the characters?”
“Actually, if you think about it, you give all the characters in our books their names. I just write them into the main story.”
“All the more reason for you to do some work. I do everything for you, but the writer’s fame only goes to you,” the friend says with an offended smile.
“Fine,” the author agrees reluctantly. “You’ll be Apollo.”
“What kind of strange name is that? Couldn’t you find anything better?” the best friend protests in surprise, sensing a mockery directed at him.
“What don’t you like? It’s a divine name.”
“It’s somehow lacking in divinity.”
“Did you want to become a supreme god with your very first role?” the naive romantic laughs. “You need to grow a bit before you get a supreme role.”
“I’ve already played absolutely every role in your books! How much more do I need to grow? No existing god can embody so many characters, fully immersing himself in their fates until they’re realistic,” the best friend objects outright, stung to the core by the offensive words. “I make everyone real!”
“I admit, you’ve worked brilliantly. You’ve lived countless lives for all the characters. You deserve to be a real god. And now you’ll have a divine name.”
“Fine, I agree,” the best friend agrees readily, still a little offended, anticipating success.
“What story do you wish to be in, almost-god?”
“You choose the story. Either way, no matter how you start the originally planned scenario, the plot constantly turns in a completely unexpected direction and vanishes into the unknown. So for now, let the story write itself.”
“It’s a deal! Long live the new, unpredictable story and its main character, Apollo!” the author announces solemnly.
“Hello, Apollo,” a young, attractive woman with short, dark hair says as she approaches the table on the summer patio of a cozy, atmospheric cafe on one of the central streets of the city. “I’m Aida. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, of course, I remember you,” the young man stands up, greeting the woman. It turns out she is noticeably taller. “I was looking forward to our meeting, but I didn’t think we’d see each other today,” he admits honestly, glancing at the wooden archway that marks the entrance to the cafe’s summer patio.
“I apologize. This was my personal initiative,” Aida says, smiling apologetically. “I couldn’t resist the desirable chance to meet you.”
“Well, now,” Apollo can’t hold back a smile, filled with pleasant surprise and slight disbelief at the open flattery.
“Please, don’t think I’m being dishonest,” the woman quickly justifies herself, noticing the look of disbelief. “I’ve wanted to meet you and introduce myself in person for a long time. Since I read your first book. And today, unexpectedly, I took the initiative when I found out you would be here. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. And tomorrow, there was no way I could have come to meet you.”
“All right, let’s leave the apologies in the past,” Apollo says, calming her with a smile. “Please sit down and relax.”
“Thank you,” Aida is genuinely happy, accepting the invitation.
“Could you bring a cold fruit tea for the lady, please,” the man orders calmly, without asking the woman’s preference.
“I’m astonished,” Aida says thoughtfully, staring intently.
“By what?” Apollo asks, looking closer with interest, not understanding.
“You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” she expresses mild indignation, feigning annoyance.
“Are you saying I didn’t guess your wish? And you wouldn’t have ordered a cold fruit tea?” A tall glass of reddish tea with ice and fruit slices appears on the table in front of the woman. Drops instantly form on the cold glass walls in the streams of warming city air on a summer morning.
“You know,” the woman eagerly presses her lips to the edge of the glass, drinking a little more than a third of the cold pleasure, feeling the coolness through her body amid the slight heat. “I certainly love cold fruit tea, but you still could have asked,” the refreshed woman says calmly with a satisfied smile.
“All right, next time I’ll definitely ask about your wishes,” Apollo holds back a laugh, showing a sly smile.
“Do you think the conversation will go further when you find out why I decided to meet with you?” Aida smiles mysteriously.
“I decided to meet with you,” Apollo corrects confidently. “And you merely wished for it. That’s how everything happened, as it should.”
“You know,” the woman thinks, narrowing her gaze. “You’re right. I wanted the meeting. And everything turned out exactly as I planned.”
“And everything turned out that way because I decided to meet you,” the man adds smugly.
“Fine. Let it be so,” Aida realizes she is losing control of the situation. It’s time to move on to serious business.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Apollo returns the conversation to important matters more seriously.
“I think you already know,” the woman smiles playfully.
“You have a manuscript?” Apollo guesses, looking at the black plastic folder in the woman’s hands.
“I do have a manuscript. But that’s not why I came,” Aida looks even more mysteriously.
“That’s more interesting,” Apollo moves closer, looking into the woman’s eyes. “It’s strange, I can’t read anything in your eyes.”
“And you won’t be able to,” she smirks, sipping her cold tea, holding her confident, vivid blue eyes on the man’s hazel ones.
“In that case, I have many interesting riddles to solve,” Apollo smiles, leaning back in his chair.
“If I allow it,” Aida also leans back relaxed in her chair, once again feeling the initiative in her hands.
“I suggest we take a short break from personal motives and deep-seated interests. Let’s deal with the business part of our meeting.”
“With pleasure,” the woman smiles, placing the black folder on the table. She takes out the manuscript Apollo noticed.
“How unexpected,” Apollo smirks. “And you want me to evaluate your work?”
“Then everything would be too simple, as you understand,” Aida smiles slyly, handing over the manuscript.
“This is my book,” Apollo is genuinely surprised. “Where did you get my manuscript?” His forehead wrinkles with surprise and indignation, which is turning into slight anger and irritation.
“You gave it to me yourself, right into my hands,” Aida informs him calmly, drinking her cool tea.
“I don’t remember,” Apollo whispers tensely. He tries to recall, but the woman is completely unfamiliar to him. And he doesn’t remember the moment he handed over the manuscript, which is very strange, since for a writer, this is always a super-important and personal matter.
“Don’t get so stressed,” Aida smiles. “The situation is a little more complicated. I doubt I can explain everything so easily. So, I suggest we move straight to the crux of the matter.” The woman becomes more serious. “It doesn’t matter how your manuscript ended up in my hands,” she stops the wave of the man’s indignation with a glance. “What matters is why it ended up with me.”
“And why is that?” Apollo insists, not expecting simple and obvious options.
“I want to propose a visualization of this book.”
“I’ve already told everyone interested in filming my books,” Apollo replies sharply. “I’m not interested in such proposals.”
“You haven’t heard me out,” Aida stops him calmly. “This won’t be a film adaptation. We’re going to realize your book in real life.”
“In what sense?” the man loses himself a little, not understanding the essence.
“We will bring your book to life with real events and people.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Apollo exclaims loudly in outrage. Patrons turn toward their table. “Are you out of your mind?” he repeats in a whisper. “The book is good, of course. And I like it. Many want to adapt it for the screen. But for real life, it’s too much. For most ordinary people, such events will be a shock.”
“Yes, I know, I read it,” Aida smiles contentedly. “That’s exactly what we need.”
“Who is ‘we’?” the tense man clarifies suspiciously.
“Including you,” the mysterious woman evades. “Screenwriters get peanuts. But you will receive payment equal to the box-office earnings of a world bestseller.”
“That doesn’t sound true,” Apollo states confidently. “My book is good, but not that good. Even if you fully convey all the events in real life. And the consequences won’t be as rosy as you imagine.”
“But they will be exactly as we imagine them.”
“That’s impossible,” Apollo notices a familiar face at the entrance to the summer patio.
“You got what you wanted,” the departing woman whispers behind the man’s back. “When you decide, call me.” Apollo looks back at the table. A pearl business card glints gold on the manuscript. “Aida“ is written in golden letters across the middle. The phone number is only visible when viewed at an angle to the sun. The intriguing woman disappears into the stream of passersby.
“And what was that all about?” asks the friend who has just arrived, smiling as he sits down at the table.
“I wish I knew,” Apollo sighs vaguely, gazing into the crowd where his memory paints Aida’s fleeting, memorable image. “As always, you come at the most inconvenient moment!”
“What do you mean, inconvenient?” the friend objects, smiling. “Do you not remember we agreed to meet here exactly at,” he looks at his watch, “—fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s why I’m annoyed!” You should have come much earlier and saved me from those exact fifteen minutes with that woman,” he explains his true feelings tensely.
“Strange,” the friend says, genuinely surprised. “She’s an attractive woman. And it’s obvious she was interested. So why did you dislike your meeting with her so much? Anyone else in your place would have immediately called and canceled a meeting with anyone else for her sake.”
“You’d better not know,” Apollo says gloomily. “You know, Matt, I’m grateful that you at least came now and cut short that strange conversation,” he looks anxiously toward the exit.
“Is it that bad?” Matt whispers seriously, concerned.
“I think it’s much more serious than I can imagine,” Apollo whispers resignedly, looking at the woman’s almost empty glass, which leaves a wet ring on the hot tablecloth.
“I sympathize,” the worried friend says understandingly. “Is there anything I can do to help? Offer support? Advice?”
“I doubt it,” Apollo shakes his head, pressing his lips together tightly. “Just tell me why you wanted to meet.”
“Look at this,” Matt says enthusiastically, pushing a pearl business card that shimmers with gold—exactly the same as the one Aida gave him—toward his friend.
“What is it?” Apollo quickly looks away, not daring to read the name in large golden letters.
“Some guy gave it to me when he found out I was friends with you,” Matt recounts simply, unaware of the conversation his friend had with Aida before his arrival.
“What guy?” Apollo asks seriously and suspiciously, hoping to understand who and what he’s dealing with.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him before,” Matt smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “Did she drink this?” he asks, looking curiously into the glass of fruit tea.
“Let me order you one,” Apollo raises his hand.
“No need, this is enough for me,” Matt calmly finishes the still-cool tea.
“Whatever you say,” Apollo struggles not to wince as he watches. It’s not that Aida is an unpleasant woman. It’s that Matt is finishing her drink that is unpleasant. It’s difficult to explain. It’s not alarming or disgusting, but it’s unpleasant to watch. A slight sense of jealousy.
“Is something wrong?” Matt notices the expression on his friend’s face.
“So what did the guy who gave you the business card say?” Apollo changes the unpleasant subject, returning to the mystery.
“He said you’d definitely like the exclusive offer,” Matt relays enthusiastically.
“And did he tell you the essence of his offer?” Apollo asks suspiciously, diverting his gaze to the stream of people passing by.
“Just the general outline,” Matt muses lightly. “Something about filming your book. Oh, wow, you actually risked bringing your precious manuscript out of the house for the first time!” the friend says, genuinely surprised, noticing the thick, uncovered stack of pages on the table.
“I certainly didn’t expect my manuscript to end up on the street,” Apollo admits seriously, clutching the book in a firm embrace.
“Then I don’t understand anything,” Matt is lost in speculation.
“And you’re not the only one,” Apollo reassures him, looking puzzled.
“That makes me feel better,” the friend smirks, carefully placing the business card with the name “Lloyd“ next to Aida’s card.
“And you decided to meet specifically for this reason?” Apollo asks, slightly disappointed.
“Not only that!” Matt replies with a happy smile. “Wait, I forgot the second reason. Oh, no! I remember!”
“Well, did something good happen in your life?” Apollo smiles, genuinely happy for his friend.
“Yes! I proposed to Mary!” the guy beams with the news.
“I don’t even know what Mary said,” Apollo chuckles, allowing his friend’s joyful emotions in all possible ways.
“She said yes, of course!” Matt objects playfully. “What are you hinting at?” he looks closer suspiciously, guessing what his friend was implying.
“Congratulations,” Apollo evades. “You seem like a great couple.”
“We don’t just seem like one. We are a great couple,” Matt declares confidently.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” Apollo nods, grasping at the saving straw. He doesn’t want to spoil such a happy moment for his friend. “So when’s the wedding?”
“We don’t know yet,” Matt says, thinking more seriously.
“Is something wrong?” Apollo asks quietly, leaning closer.
“Our parents are against the wedding and our union in general,” the friend admits softly.
“You found something to worry about,” the man smiles with relief. “In most cases, parents don’t like their children’s chosen partners. They see enemies, not allies, who want to take their priceless treasure away from them.”
“I understand all that, but I don’t want to start our life together with a war,” Matt says, deeply upset, which happens quite rarely. “Then there will be nitpicking and complaints for the rest of our lives. Maybe they’ll even drive us to divorce.”
“Hold on,” Apollo seriously stops the stream of his friend’s gloomy thoughts. “Do you and Mary truly love each other?”
“Of course,” Matt declares confidently, without a second of doubt.
“Then I don’t see a single reason to panic or get upset. Just get married calmly and live together. Ultimately, you’re not marrying your families; you’re marrying each other. Think about your mutual happiness, not about what others think of you. Especially since you have true love. And your parents should feel that. And if they don’t, then there is definitely something wrong with them. Or they are not real parents. And why listen to people who are strangers to you?”
“It sounds logical. But in real life, everything is much more complicated than in abstract reflections,” Matt says resignedly.
“And when was something truly special, bright, and real ever easy?” Apollo smirks. “You often have to stand up to the worst for the sake of the best. Of course, this isn’t a mandatory condition for happiness, but the Universe, for some reason, absolutely loves constantly launching us into an endless labyrinth of trials, smiling as it watches us from the side and above, fussing and suffering.”
“I don’t know,” Matt gives up helplessly, lowering his heavy hands.
“What does Mary think?” Apollo wants to hear all the arguments to better understand the whole situation and give the right advice.
“She mostly just stays silent when her parents remind her that we are not a match,” he reluctantly recalls the unpleasant moments.
“And what does she say to you?” Apollo asks calmly, trying not to rattle his upset friend’s nerves.
“Me?” Matt smiles sadly. “Nothing. She just looks at me with loving eyes, and I don’t need anything else.”
“You’re funny!” Apollo laughs in relief. “You have true love! Get married and don’t listen to anyone. You can even run away to the ends of the earth from everyone who disagrees. I’ll support you no matter what.”
“Then you’ll be the best man,” Matt cleverly seizes the opportune moment.
“Best man?” Apollo’s confidence evaporates. “Why me? That’s such a responsibility.”
“I don’t know any other person who is both worthy and responsible,” Matt smirks, enjoying his friend’s rare confusion.
“I’m a writer,” the stunned friend reminds him with a smile. “It’s hard to find a more unreliable person. I chose an incredibly dubious path, like the last naive romantic, and you call me a responsible person,” Apollo reasons self-critically, genuinely surprised by his friend’s choice.
“Aren’t friends supposed to see their friends’ true motives and goals?” Matt reminds him seriously. “Any path chosen by the heart’s calling and the soul’s desire becomes the most conscious and responsible decision in a person’s life. Not everyone would dare to submit and trust the blessing of the Universe.”
“You sound like me in my books,” Apollo squints suspiciously.
“Your books taught me how to be a better person and friend.”
“I see you’ve learned to pick the right arguments, too,” Apollo gives in with a smirk, realizing he has raised a worthy opponent in an argument. “Will Mary be okay with it?” Any best friend should consider the bride’s opinion.
“Mary was the first one to insist that you be our best man,” Matt informs him, smiling and happy about the agreement with his fiancée.
“So you were the second one to suggest my candidacy, then,” Apollo objects seriously. “What kind of friend are you?”
“What can you do,” he shrugs, smiling, breaking into laughter.
“All right, I forgive you. This time. And I’d be happy to be the best man at your happy official moment.”
“Thanks, friend! I knew you wouldn’t refuse,” Matt shakes his hand contentedly with gratitude and bright joy.
“Only because Mary asked,” Apollo says with a mischievous smirk.
“I’m completely fine with that, too,” Matt laughs. “Shall we celebrate?”
“Let’s do it this evening,” Apollo asks seriously. “Right now I need to sort this out quickly,” he looks tensely at the pearl business cards with gold names. “I won’t be calm until I understand what they want from me. They ruined my good mood this morning.”
“I understand. See you this evening,” Matt agrees seriously. “It’s a little suspicious,” he recalls his meeting and conversation with Lloyd. It’s a good thing he didn’t see the meeting with Aida. Otherwise, he might not have let his dear friend meet them.
“Go on, fly to your wonderful fiancée. And I’ll sort this out,” Apollo urges him with a smile.
“Be sure to call this evening, and we’ll meet. And you’ll tell me everything in detail,” Matt asks seriously, leaving the city cafe’s summer patio.
“I hope I’ll have that opportunity,” Apollo smiles tensely, heading in a different direction from Matt.
“Hello, Aida,” Apollo says reluctantly into the phone, driven by curiosity and a slight fear of the unknown and unexpected.
“You took quite a while to call,” she smirks into the receiver.
“You saw me—I was talking with my friend after our meeting at the cafe,” the man unconsciously justifies himself.
“When is their wedding?” the woman asks, smoothly taking the writer’s arm as they continue down the street together.
“They haven’t set a date yet,” Apollo tries to control his emotions, hiding his surprise at the pleasant touch of a practically unknown woman in the middle of the street.
“A shame! They need to decide and get married quickly,” Aida shakes her head disapprovingly. “You can’t put things like that off.”
“Were you eavesdropping?” the writer objects calmly.
“More like, I became an unwilling witness,” the woman excuses herself, pondering.
“Why do they need to hurry?” Apollo clings suspiciously to her words.
“They have true love, after all,” Aida smiles. “And when love is true, you absolutely can’t delay!”
“I agree,” Apollo says quietly, expecting a more ominous answer related to the end of the world or something similar. This strange and attractive woman is clearly hiding something.
“It’s not as scary as you think,” she reassures the thoughtful writer with a sweet and warm smile.
“It’s even scarier then?” Apollo guesses unpleasantly, looking at the shimmering heat haze in the burning continuation of the street.
“Anything is possible,” the woman answers vaguely. “This way,” she says, confidently turning into a cool alley filled with a pleasant and eerie shadow.
“Is there the slightest point in asking where we’re going?” the man asks hopelessly, led by the appealing and persistent woman.
“We’re following your pure curiosity,” Aida becomes increasingly evasive, smiling like the mistress of the situation. “Or are you not at all interested in how we plan to realize your book in real life instead of on a soulless movie screen?”
“You know yourself how important the future fate of every one of his works is to a writer,” Apollo surrenders passively to the unknown of the situation. “Where did you get my manuscript?”
“And where did you get it?” she cunningly answers a question with a question. “Please,” a metal door opens around the corner at the end of the shadowy alley, promising nothing good.
“Finally, you have graced our humble abode,” a young blonde man with a white, cloud-like beard greets them, taking off his glasses with blue lenses in a gold frame. The closed door blends with the pearlescent walls, gleaming gold in the saturated warm white light of the many lamps.
“I wasn’t exactly rushing to see you,” Apollo replies tensely, reluctantly shaking the stranger’s hand.
“No one ever rushes to see us. But everyone hurries to leave us as quickly as possible,” the blond man smirks, looking slyly through the translucent blue lenses.
“And I should probably go now. All the best,” Apollo hurries toward the exit. He pushes the door, only to step into an identical room with pearlescent-gold walls, where the man with the white beard and a warmly smiling Aida are already waiting.
“No, young man, it’s not time for you to go anywhere. You have already arrived,” the man smiles contentedly. “And it’s rude to leave without an introduction. My name is Lemm,” he extends his hand again.
“Apollo,” the writer returns the handshake out of politeness.
“There’s no need to try to leave so rudely again,” the man casts a glance at Aida. The woman pushes the heavy pearlescent door, confining the space to a single pearlescent-gold cube. “If that were possible, we would have lost all our authors and characters. Think about it—how would we manage to implement the plots then?”
“Why did you choose my book?” Apollo asks sharply, searching for another exit.
“We commissioned it from you,” Lemm explains calmly. “Do you think a plot like that could have come to you all by itself?” the blond man and Aida smirk, looking at the bewildered writer.
“But I wrote the other books myself,” he tries to stay confident, though he believes less and less in his chances of escaping the pearlescent binding.
“Yes, you are right there,” Lemm acknowledges the authorship respectfully. “We, if you will, commissioned this particular book from you.”
“But how?” Apollo can’t stop wondering. “I’ve never seen you and I have no idea who you are.”
“No one canceled the impulses of desires,” Lemm smiles mysteriously. “It was enough for us to send you certain thoughts and wishes for the creation of a new book. And you created it. I read the manuscript. You have excellently recreated our original idea. The result turned out even better than expected. And now we want to recreate the book you created.”
“Why me?” Apollo is still trying to get to the main point.
“You yourself said that no one is interested in you because you’re a pauper,” Aida smirks. “Especially women—they have no use for a materially poor writer.”
“I’m just looking for people who are rich in spirit and soul,” the writer justifies himself. “And those were my private thoughts. How do you know them?”
“Sometimes, along with the necessary thoughts for the book, we have to instill the wrong motivation. We decided to heat you up with thoughts about money, without which it’s impossible to organize a personal life and communicate with most of humanity these days.”
“Perhaps,” Apollo insists confidently. “Though it’s practically unreal. So, it turns out I wasn’t talking to my inner voice, but to you in my thoughts?”
“Well, imagine that—so quick-witted, yet you didn’t immediately realize who you were pouring your soul out to,” Lemm chuckles, irritating the guest.
“Material wealth, as you might have guessed from my thoughts, is not the best motivation for me,” the writer protests.
“That’s why we’re ready to offer a far more valuable and profitable deal,” Lemm persuades him enticingly. “If you agree to the realization of your book according to our plan, we are ready to grant you the coveted meeting with your one, your only. Can such a proposal leave you indifferent?”
“How can I believe you?” Apollo is tensely wary.
“We whispered the right plot to you for the book. We brought you here without much effort. We’re offering the best payment option for your efforts. Is that not enough to start trusting us? Besides, you don’t have a choice. You won’t be able to leave until we realize your book.”
“And once we realize the book, will I be able to leave with my promised one, my only one?” Apollo clings more tightly to the illusory promise, which is not backed by any guarantees or trust in these strange individuals.
“If we can make any door disappear, what would it cost us to open any desired door for you?” Lemm is not shy about manipulating the writer’s focus around the interesting circumstances.
“Tell me honestly, will we be able to walk away from you peacefully afterward?” Apollo asks directly, guessing what the strange people are up to.
“You’re the writer,” Lemm smirks. “The ending always depends on you.”
“If everything goes according to my book, the chances are slim,” Apollo recalls resignedly.
“But you can always rewrite the ending however you wish,” Aida whispers.
“Then what is there to think about? I have no other options. The offer is excellent, if you haven’t lied,” the writer says, talking himself into it aloud. “And I’ll write the ending the way I need to—I have the experience.”
“Perfect then! Please,” Lemm opens a pearlescent-gold door before the writer.
“And what is required of me?” Apollo asks, returning to the real world among the city streets.
“Everything is written in your script,” the man with the white beard and the blue-lensed, gold-framed glasses smirks, closing the door.
“It doesn’t bode well for life to follow such a script,” the writer sighs resignedly, once again feeling the oppressive heat after the cool pearlescent-gold room. “Where is the manuscript?” he turns back sharply, but instead of a door, only a bent sheet of rusty tin leans against the wall.
“Why do you need the manuscript if you know your book by heart?” Aida’s voice replies from ahead, smirking.
“But I don’t remember everything,” Apollo protests doubtfully.
“Then create the book anew. Which, incidentally, is what’s required of you.”
“But that will be a completely different book.”
“A different one, of course,” Aida laughs cheerfully, glancing at the man catching up to her confident strides. “That’s the beauty of the real, living realization of a book. Every line is created and changed as we go,” she explains the meaning of the unusual idea more seriously.
“It sounds less like the creation and adaptation of a book, and more like life,” Apollo concludes aloud. “Are you asking me to live my book?”
“And how else can you truly feel it?” Aida smirks, confident and mysterious again.
“Fine. Feelings aside, how much money are you offering for this realistic madness?” the naive romantic takes a backseat when material matters are discussed.
“Money?” Aida asks, smiling in surprise. “What about your one, your only? Isn’t true love more important than mere money? Even if the sum is huge,” she whispers with a smirk.
“More important, of course,” Apollo smiles. “But I don’t believe you are capable of influencing fate and arranging a fateful meeting,” the man, who is looking at things realistically, admits seriously.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Aida whispers, looking around. “And the amount depends on your decision. You are the author of the book. And in this case, of the life. However much you ‘write’ for yourself, that’s what you’ll get.”
“Doubtful,” Apollo thinks suspiciously. “It can’t all be that easy and simple.”
“And a door doesn’t just appear in a blank wall, either. Yet it appeared easily and simply when it was needed,” Aida smiles, emerging from the alley. The sun has moved across the sky, creating a huge shadow from the majestic skyscrapers that guard the street.
“Where are all the people?” the writer peers into the nearby and distant shops and cafes. There are no patrons, no staff. There are not even ordinary passersby or vehicles on the sidewalks and roads of the dark city’s hot streets.
“You haven’t created them yet,” Aida reminds him, smiling calmly.
“I didn’t create this city either,” Apollo recalls tensely.
“This city appeared by default. Like standard settings. You can easily change the city and the country. I’m doubtful about the planet,” Aida muses quietly. “We could, of course, change the planet, but I don’t think the actors in the book’s realization would like such a long and arduous move.”
“I don’t like the skyscrapers,” Apollo looks with slight aversion at the shining spires of the high-rises reflecting the blazing sun. “What do I need to rewrite the setting?” he looks seriously at Aida, who is patiently waiting for the writer’s decision. “Paper and a pen? I can’t carry a typewriter around,” the man objects preemptively, expecting an unpleasant answer.
“It’s much simpler,” the woman reassures him, smiling. “Create the world in your imagination. We’ll record the result. Then we’ll decipher the fantasy and create the new book. Just please try your best. We need a bestseller,” Aida requests with sincere pleading in her eyes. “If it turns out uninteresting, we’ll both be fired.”
“All right, I’ll try,” Apollo is certainly angry at the organization Aida works for, but he doesn’t want to ruin her life through intentional sabotage out of mere stubbornness and malice.
“Thank you,” Aida kisses the writer on the cheek in her joy, unable to restrain her emotions.
“It’s too early to thank me,” the man smiles, pleasantly surprised by the sharp emotional impulse of the interesting and attractive woman. With a glance, he removes the skyscrapers from the street. The sky covers with translucent clouds so the sun doesn’t beat down so hard. He transforms the street into a huge park. He creates modest and lovely wooden benches for the joy of couples in love of all ages and people tired of life, for children and parents who have found time for a walk together. There are also empty old benches, storing memories of those who used to sit on them, working through problems, waiting for a meeting, or enjoying the time, but are now in another city or country. And some have been gone from this world for many years.
“An interesting approach,” Aida observes evaluatingly, scrutinizing the instantly created people and animals. “It’s all so realistic. Even the plants move as if they’re alive. Only the wind is fresher than in a real city,” she deeply inhales the rich aroma of pristine nature.
“You yourself said I can live this book however I want,” Apollo smiles contentedly. “So I’m creating what I want,” he smiles, looking at the sky, causing a light and pleasant drizzle. The unhappy ones hide from the rain, the happy ones enjoy it. Everything is just like in real life. The rain refreshes the pleasant feelings instead of diluting them. Not everyone is given the chance to feel the moment.
“Could I have an umbrella?” Aida asks with a sad smile.
“An umbrella?” Apollo asks, smiling in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re unhappy,” he looks suspiciously into the woman’s eyes.
“I just don’t want to get wet,” Aida turns away her open gaze, which reveals sadness.
“No!” Apollo protests confidently. “From this moment on, there will be no umbrellas in your life against good events!” he turns the drizzle into a downpour, laughing with feigned malice.
“Why be so cruel?” the woman laughs in a panic, covering her hair from the rain with her hands. “I just got my hair done this morning!”
“A hairstyle is an artificial phenomenon. And a downpour granted by nature washes away everything unreal from our lives. What could be more natural? You asked for realism yourself,” Apollo laughs, happy about the desired rain on a hot day, opening his arms to the sky.
“I still don’t agree,” Aida smiles, brushing the wet strands of hair from her face. “You could have limited it to a drizzle.”
“And does everything in life happen the way we want it to?” Apollo smirks, beginning to feel the true power of a world creator.
“That’s why books are written—so that everything is exactly the way we want it, not the way life dictates,” the woman explains her vision of the purpose of books thoughtfully.
“I write a little differently,” the writer smiles modestly. “In my books, everything is real and like life. I create a new real reality. My events and characters are more real than reality.”
“I’ve noticed,” Aida laughs, watching the raging rain wash away the happy and cheerful people along with the benches. They both remain on a small island with a single lush green tree. “Where are you moving them to?”
“Back to their lives,” the man watches the flow of fates calmly.
“Then why did you leave us here?” Aida asks with interest.
“By a fatal combination of unforeseen circumstances, our destinies intertwine right here. And they will continue according to a shared script. Didn’t you read my manuscript, though?” the writer turns sharply, calculating the truth in the woman’s eyes.
“I glanced at it before meeting you at the cafe,” Aida admits, smiling.
“Then you don’t know the subsequent events either,” Apollo concludes seriously, looking at the calm river that remains after the elemental surge. “How were you planning to control the realization of the whole plot?” he asks. “I’ve already done everything off-book.”
“Are you testing me, you trickster?” the woman guesses, smiling. She sits down on the soft green grass.
“Exactly,” the romantic confirms seriously, sitting down too.
“That’s the whole beauty of it,” Aida closes her eyes, smiling. She warms her bright face in the sunbeams that break through the veil of the sky. “I don’t want to know what happens next. The main thing for me is to witness an interesting story that our clients and future viewers will like.”
“Viewers?” Apollo is alerted.
“What did you expect?” the woman asks, turning with a sly laugh. “We’re not doing this for ourselves. Your book is interesting to the clients as a potentially successful new-generation project.”
“And what is new about it?” the romantic’s thoughts get stuck on clarifying the circumstances, preventing him from creating a new story.
“Have you often seen realistic lives created based on books?” Aida smirks. “The project is completely new. Quite risky. And very promising. If the realization doesn’t drag on,” she hints at the almost frozen scene around the river.
“Everything can be changed in an instant. Don’t worry about that,” the writer creates figures from water on the mirrored surface of the river with his gaze. Transparent people, animals, and objects depict living events. “I can do anything when the story is in my hands. But, not knowing the client’s true motives, I can just as easily stop everything,” he passes his palm through the air. An airplane made of cumulus clouds flies over the river, destroying and turning the water images into thick fountains that fall monotonously, lacking any content or meaning of a monotonous life.
“Then do it, if you can,” Aida encourages him calmly.
“And can you promise that such adaptations won’t harm anyone?” the writer asks seriously before he begins to create a real life based on the forgotten book.
“From what I know, I can say that nothing worse than life itself should happen,” the sad woman answers vaguely and seriously. “As you know, there are far more terrible events in real life. That’s why people seek a better life on the pages of books and in the frames of films. And they will happily live according to the chosen, realized scenarios.”
“So this is all designed for people to choose their lives?” the writer guesses, searching for the true essence of the idea.
“Fine, I’ll tell you what I myself understood,” Aida gives in. “Our clients want to test whether it is possible to create real life using scripts to balance the existing one.”
“So, you want to control the world with books?” the skeptical writer summarizes, wrinkling his brow with the realization.
“Not control, but guide,” Aida corrects with a sad smile. “You see for yourself, people can’t choose the best script and live the best life according to it, enjoying every frame.”
“But that won’t be real life anymore,” the writer protests. “Everything will turn into an illusion of life. Not life at all, but a fairy tale.”
“A realistic illusion,” Aida corrects, smiling.
“All right, why don’t you create the scripts for the realizations yourselves? Or hire other writers? Frankly, I’m not keen on writing life scripts for other people,” the writer becomes tense, realizing the weight of the responsibility placed upon him for the fates of other people.
“It’s not that simple in this story,” the woman smiles, observing the darkening cumulus clouds and the lightning with low rumbles of thunder, which intensify with every word the writer speaks. “And you weren’t chosen for this job for no reason. We’ve been watching you and your work for many years. You may not have noticed, but your books realize themselves. Every line you write becomes a real event with the same consequences as in your books.
“You were monitoring me and my books?” the writer tenses up even more. A strong wind creates waves, expanding and raising the river all around.
“We were monitoring the work of all writers. But only your books are realized in real life. All other books are simple stories that are not destined to come true. Perhaps you have a genuine talent and an unusual, vibrant style that makes everything realistic. The events in your books are always in real time. The characters’ personalities and fates are real, alive, deep, permeated with life experience that you may not describe, but you always feel when you write their destinies and speak through their mouths on the pages. You have already managed to create many scripts for real life. That’s why we know for sure that you can also create what will be best for humanity.”
“How do you know what’s best for people?” the writer smashes the rushing waves against a growing, enormous wall that covers the entire visible space, separating them from further events.
“We don’t know,” the sad woman admits resignedly. “No one knows but you. That’s the whole truth. Just take my word for it. Only your intuition works so well that you can create real scenarios for the best life for everyone. You can save all people simply by intuitively creating the script of all humanity’s destiny. Past, present, and future.”
“And I could also throw a huge meteor at the planet that will destroy all life,” the writer whispers calmly.
“You could,” Aida agrees calmly. “It’s not out of the question that you threw the last meteor at Earth, too,” she muses, smiling. “Perhaps you were scared of creating the destinies of living beings back then, too. And you decided to get rid of all existence with one easy movement. But you failed to consider one thing. Life is reborn every time after destruction.”
“Are you saying I constantly destroy humanity and all life on Earth?” the writer objects, smiling.
“I can’t state it with certainty, but I believe in the possibility,” the cunning woman evades.
“Are you calling me God?” the writer, whose life is limited to writing books, laughs.
“Why use a word whose meaning and content everyone sees differently,” Aida smirks skeptically. “It’s just that you, in some unimaginable way, have written and are writing the fate of humanity. But now your books are limited to only small sections of existing space and a small number of destinies. And we want to return the management of all known and unknown space, and absolutely all destinies in our world, to your powerful hands. And beyond, if you wish.”
“What about the killer meteor?” the writer reminds her, smiling.
“You see,” Aida smiles. “Your creativity is arranged so that the meteor and the global catastrophes may never have happened at all. You could have made it all up. Written it in the consciousness and memory of all your characters, who described those events in their books.”
“So, according to you, I created everything by writing one big book?” the writer asks seriously, feeling both cold and hot.
“Perhaps nothing existed at all until today. You could have created the world in a few lines. You could have written a new Universe,” the woman says, frighteningly serious and confident.
“No! That’s all impossible!” Apollo abruptly stands up, unable to bear the tension of the articulated theory of creation. “That’s not within my power,” he casts an angry and irritated glance at the horizon. The unbreakable giant wall instantly collapses in an explosion and scatters into tiny fragments throughout all visible space, destroying the beauty he just created.
“See?” the calm Aida says, walking closer with a smile. “And you say it’s not within your power. You just created a perfect park on a patch of earth, and a couple of minutes later, you destroyed everything you saw in front of you.”
“It’s impossible,” the writer whispers helplessly, examining the consequences of a single burst of anger. Around them, the burning debris of the recently created world smokes, shattered by fragments of the giant wall. “But that means I’m completely alone in an artificial world that all the characters I created believe is reality.”
“Perhaps,” Aida smirks. “Or not alone,” she reminds him of herself, smiling contentedly.
“But I can influence you, too,” the writer thinks, afraid of harming the woman he likes.
“Why don’t you try? Don’t be afraid,” she smirks boldly, opening herself up to attack with any weapon or influence.
“I don’t want to influence you,” Apollo gives up.
“I’m taller than you,” Aida reminds him, smiling. “Make me your height. Or shorter, so it’s more comfortable for you to talk to me.”
“But I don’t care how tall you are,” the writer protests thoughtfully. “I like you just the way you are.”
“Fine,” Aida whispers slyly. “Make me a redhead!”
“I like your hair,” the writer admits, smiling.
“Then I’ll become whatever I want!” the woman transforms into a long-haired blonde.
“You look good this way too,” the writer smiles admiringly, carefully examining the silky hair of the invariably beautiful woman. “Wait! This means,” the writer’s eyes open wider with realization. “You are like me! You create all of reality, too.”
“And you naively believed the Universe would entrust the creation of the whole world to one emotional person,” Aida laughs, looking into the bewildered eyes of the naive romantic. “Everything in the Universe must be balanced. You are balanced by me.”
“So, this whole story with the golden pearl organization is fictional?” the writer guesses, disappointed.
“All of reality is fictional,” Aida confirms, smiling.
“But I didn’t invent this. And why would I?” Apollo wonders in surprise, looking at the consequences of the wild fantasy.
“I made it up,” the woman admits, smiling. “You were so immersed in writing realistic scripts that you yourself believed in a story where you are just an ordinary, uninteresting pauper-writer, just as you always presented yourself to all your created characters. I had to bring you back to your true origin and purpose.”
“Why do you reveal a new truth to me every time?” Apollo objects tiredly. “There should be one truth at the core of everything.”
“I’m checking how ready you are for each new level of truth,” Aida smiles contentedly.
“And how ready am I now?” the man asks cautiously.
“Ready enough that it’s time to create a new world for people. We need to write the right script,” the interested woman announces, smiling.
“All right, we’ll create it,” the writer agrees confidently. “Just tell me, did I throw the meteor at Earth?” he insists on getting to the truth, wanting to stop his guilty glance away.
“Who knows,” Aida shrugs, smirking, walking across the river to the other side of the ruined city park.
“That’s not fair,” Apollo whispers, offended. “Does that mean the wars, too—?” he is horrified at the thought of his involvement in the atrocities.
“Okay, don’t get worked up,” Aida laughs, turning around. “You’re not to blame. You’ve always written good scripts for humanity. But people themselves and external factors, such as meteors and the influence of unknown forces, inevitably destroyed all the beautiful stories.”
“What forces are unknown to us if we create everything ourselves?” Apollo asks in surprise.
“Understand, I balance you. And we are balanced by the Universe itself. It is aware of all the factors of direct and indirect influence on the fate of the humanity we created.”
“Well, imagine that—what an interesting life this is, it turns out,” the writer realizes, smiling. “And I’m not a pauper-writer,” he adds happily with a laugh.
“You finally realized,” Aida laughs, openly happy for the creator of the human world.
“Wait,” Apollo stops in the middle of the mirrored river, which calms down as he processes what’s happening. “Who are we to each other?”
“I promised you would meet your one, your only, the one you dreamed of so much,” the beautiful woman smiles contentedly.
“I never thought I’d be so lucky,” the writer smiles happily. “You are a true Goddess!” he adds, laughing joyfully.
“And how could it be otherwise,” Aida says, turning around with a laugh. “A real God must have a real Goddess,” they realize the majesty and the comicality of the moment together.
“And can I even hold your hand?” he reaches out cautiously with his fingertips.
“Are you so disbelieving of your happiness?” Aida laughs. “The Universe created us for each other, and you’re afraid to touch my hand,” she gently touches his fingers in response. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, so no time to relax and engage in all this romantic nonsense,” she kisses the writer on the cheek, smoothly pulling her fingers away from his hand. “All in good time,” she winks playfully.
“We need to create a new world quickly,” Apollo whispers, smiling, anticipating their divine joint future. He catches up to his one, his only, gazing at the incredibly beautiful, vivid blue eyes that look confidently into a bright future, foreseeing grand changes. That is how the writer creates a new sky. Aida’s radiant hair makes the world brighter even on a cloudy day. He endows the newborn sun with such a pure radiance. The woman’s breath is light and easy. Now the whole world is filled only with a pleasant wind. And her sensual and confident movements captivate the gaze of the delighted creator of the human world. That is what life itself will be like.
“I see you’re creating the sky anew,” Aida smiles contentedly, looking at her one and only, who is taking the grand project of creating a new world for humanity seriously. “It’s not as gloomy now as it was during the dark moments of your righteous anger.”
“I was inspired by the beauty of the true sky-blue,” the writer admits partially, concealing his perception of the infinite depth of his one and only’s gaze.
“And the sun shines softer and more pleasantly than it did when we met on the cafe’s summer patio,” the beautiful woman allows the new sun to gently caress the fair skin of her face and hands.
“My soul became brighter when I met you,” Apollo admits sincerely, feeling shy about the personal confession.
“It’s strange, there are no more hurricane winds,” she observes, smiling. “Before, I would have been blown away, unable to take a single step. And now, light, fresh breezes gently tousle my hair, as if touching it with the tips of invisible fingers.”
“I’m calmer about the truth now,” the writer smiles.
“And life immediately became much easier and more pleasant,” Aida closes her eyes with a smile, trusting the new life and her one and only.
“I am inspired by life itself,” the naive romantic’s smile grows softer, and his words grow more tender. With a hungry but restrained gaze, he absorbs all the charm of the ideal. His soul touches the pristine, pure beauty, making him better.
“The brighter and purer the creator’s soul, the more beautiful and sublime the masterpieces. It’s nice to see kind impulses in you again,” the woman rejoices reservedly.
“I hope I wasn’t particularly bad before, either,” Apollo whispers tensely, expecting a new dose of truth that might not be the most pleasant.
“Don’t be afraid, darling, you have always been and remain good. You just sometimes yielded to the Universe’s provocations. And you were never an ordinary person. That word is not applicable to you at all,” she reminds him, smiling.
“But I’m not God, either,” he states seriously, looking at the situation soberly.
“Of course, we are not Gods,” the beautiful woman smirks. “We are ordinary creators of the human world. And we are different. Our mood changes like the fickle nature we create. All the changes in us are only external. A storm rages on the surface of the ocean, but it’s quiet and calm in the depths,” with a gentle movement of her hand, she creates a raging ocean before their eyes. She lifts a column cut from the water into the sky, showing by example. In the mass of the water column, fish swim calmly in the depths, unconcerned by the storm on the ocean’s surface. “We create the world in our own image and spiritual state.”
“I heard something similar about the creation of people,” Apollo recalls vaguely, creating copies of himself and the lovely woman on the surface of the calmed ocean.
“Yes,” Aida smiles. “People have interesting ideas about that. But everything is a little different,” with a fluid motion of her palm, she turns their copies into seagulls. The birds scatter over the ocean.
“And how is it? How do we create people?” the writer asks assertively, feeling a necessity imposed by the Universe.
“We won’t rush such an important matter,” Aida notices her one and only’s worries and tension. “For now, we can get used to the new world without people. We can create animals so the planet doesn’t forget it was originally created for life.”
“What animals should we create?” the responsible creator immediately ponders.
“I don’t even know,” Aida chuckles. “We could create the former species,” she creates familiar types of animals. “But I don’t like that some are killers and others are victims,” she recalls the gruesome moments and cruel murders in the animal world more sadly, watching the predators dissolve the herbivores in the air with claws and fangs. “And if we create peaceful animals without aggressors,” she removes the predators, leaving only herbivorous species around, “the animals will overpopulate the planet,” she multiplies their number tenfold. “Then there won’t be room not just for people, but for the animals themselves,” the entire space is filled with animals to capacity. “They simply won’t have anything to eat. They will become predators themselves to survive. It seems some laws of life didn’t arise for no reason.”
“When we create people, they will influence the number of animals,” Apollo has seen enough human cruelty toward peaceful, and often defenseless, animals. He creates a tribe of people who dissolve the animals in the air with swings of their weapons.
“Honestly,” Aida whispers, hoping the Universe isn’t listening. “I wouldn’t create people or predators at all.”
“But how would you regulate the number of peaceful animals then?” the writer logically ponders. “And you don’t want to create peaceful ones, either,” he guesses in a whisper, looking into the deep blue of her beautiful eyes. “Is that even allowed?” he glances cautiously at the sky, trying to see signs of the Universe watching.
“The Universe conceived a world in which all manifestations exist: good and evil, peaceful and cruel. Everything is created in equilibrium. But often one manifestation outweighs the others. I’m simply tired of looking at the inequality. But I don’t think the Universe will allow us to change the original concept of the earthly world,” with a sweep of her hand, she removes all the animals, leaving only grass, bushes, and trees growing on the fertile earth.
“Did the Universe tell you that directly?” Apollo whispers, smirking. “Did you receive a direct prohibition?”
“Of course not, silly,” the beautiful woman laughs. “The Universe never communicates with anyone directly. Not even with the creators of other worlds. And it has never spoken to us,” she muses more sadly, feeling the deprivation of parental attention. “Except that Lemm spoke to you. In my concept, that was the Universe,” she chuckles playfully. “But that doesn’t happen in real life.”
“I wouldn’t say I enjoyed talking to Lemm,” Apollo admits honestly. “You see, there was no direct prohibition,” the guy happily emphasizes the important and decisive point. “Let’s try to create our world exactly as we want it. If the Universe doesn’t like it, we can remake everything at any moment as it wishes.”
“You weren’t such a rebel before,” Aida observes with a smile, pleasantly surprised.
“And how else could I be?” Apollo laughs. “Only rebels are capable of creating their own worlds, ignoring the rules. And when you know the rules, it’s even easier to learn to use them as a personal advantage.”
“I hope we don’t get punished for such tricks,” Aida whispers cautiously, looking into the blue sky, which stretches boundlessly into infinity.
“We only live one eternity! So why not try to change at least a small segment the length of a life? And then we’ll try again. If the Universe allows it. And if it doesn’t, we will forever have the real life we created and lived according to our true desire.”
“You’ve changed noticeably,” Aida is increasingly and pleasantly surprised, noticing new interesting changes in her one and only.
“Ordinary people don’t change. And I’m not just a person. I am a world creator!” the writer shouts, playfully depicting boundless power in his mighty hands.
“I don’t believe you,” the beautiful woman laughs.
“All right,” Apollo lowers his hands with a smile. “I’m just an ordinary creator of the human world. Is that better?” he smiles, looking at his one and only, for whom he is ready to create any world and a new Universe.
“Yes, that looks more like you. My sweet writer,” she kisses him gently on the cheek. “A humble writer who creates human destinies and reality itself.”
“A pauper-writer,” Apollo reminds her, smiling. “Why is such a beautiful woman with me?”
“Imagine that—you still have fragments of human foolishness left,” Aida laughs. “If you don’t have material wealth, it doesn’t mean you are poor in soul. And you are much richer than the rich people who were among humans. The whole world is in your hands. So, yes, I chose the richest man. I am only with you for your wealth. I need your soul and your talent as a creator of worlds.”
“I knew you needed me,” Apollo laughs, embracing the beautiful woman. “But I didn’t think you were only interested in my treasures,” he chides, smirking playfully.
“Now you know the truth,” Aida admits, nodding with a smile.
“All right, then I am forced to voice the desire to exchange my treasures for yours. My soul in exchange for yours. And let your talent as a creator unite with mine for the common good. I think that would be fair,” the writer smiles thoughtfully, looking into the eyes of the most beautiful woman.
“All right, I’ll think about that offer,” Aida smirks. “I have nothing to lose anyway. Your soul already belongs to me.”
“Ah, now I understand why I feel so easy and calm,” the writer laughs. “A better guardian for my soul is impossible to imagine.”
“And I’ll still observe your behavior to see if I can entrust my soul to you,” the woman kisses her one and only on the lips and runs off.