Twilight began to deepen over the forest. In the rays of the setting sun, which was about to disappear beyond the horizon, golden crowns appeared cherry-red. Night coolness from the river spread among the trees. Soon the warm, bright day would smoothly transition into a cold and damp autumn night.
Viktor and Natalia slowly walked through the forest along the bank. She held his arm as if they had known each other for a very long time, rather than having just met today.
"I'd like to confess something to you," the writer broke the prolonged silence.
"Love?" Natalia playfully asked.
"No... Much worse."
"Oh, my God! What could be worse? Are you sure you're ready to entrust such serious secrets to a barely acquainted girl?"
"Why not?"
"You're a risky person!"
"You won't tell anyone anyway... And no one will believe you..."
"Well, speak already!" the girl tugged at the writer's sleeve. "I adore other people's secrets! Don't keep me in suspense, you intrigue!"
Viktor paused, sighed heavily, and then said:
"The thing is, I didn't actually write the last dozen of my books."
"What do you mean? How is that possible?" the girl asked, suddenly bursting out laughing. "Do you have a personal literary slave whom you keep in the basement? Did I guess right? You're making it all up again! Were you trying to trick me?"
"Not at all," the writer replied sadly. "My friend, a programmer, installed a self-learning program on my computer... A neural network. It can read texts that you give it, and then starts writing by itself. It turns out very coherent and quite good. That's how I've been doing things for the past year. Neither the publisher nor the readers even suspect that I didn't write them myself. I haven't written a single line in a long time..."
"That's very funny," the girl reacted unexpectedly calmly. "So now you're not only a talented writer, but also a talented fraudster!"
"Do you find this amusing?"
"Yes... Quite amusing... And it reminded me of a story I read last week. An impressionist painter did exactly the same thing. Critics admired how accurately he conveyed the whole range of human emotions in his works. But the paintings were created by a computer. When the deception was revealed, ironically, his paintings only increased in value..."
"Indeed amusing," the writer thoughtfully said and looked at the girl. "Do you think I should do the same?"
"Who knows..." she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "In any case, I don't see anything particularly shameful in it. People pay for digital copies, buy subscriptions to stupid online series. Why shouldn't they read books written by a neural network? And you yourself said that all this is just sequences of zeros and ones..."
"But is there any real value in such 'creativity'?"
"Real? Is there anything real left in this world?!"
"You... Me... This evening..."
"You know what?! Why did I stop photographing people?! People are constantly lying! When they write, when they talk... To each other, to themselves, to everyone... Even when they look into my lens!"
"Do you think I'm deceiving you in some way?"
"I think you're just making everything up..." Natalia said more calmly, with a kind of hopeless sadness in her voice, and turned away.
She stood in her ridiculous sweater with Christmas trees and deer jumping on beige and brown stripes, wrapped around her neck with a frivolous orange scarf, and gazed thoughtfully at the water, where the sunset burned with its fiery colors. Almost with the same gaze that Viktor had used yesterday to look at the same water.
"Well, I didn't promise myself not to photograph people..." the writer said, taking out his smartphone and suddenly taking a picture of Natalia in the rays of the setting sun.
"Why do you need this?" the girl asked, frowning slightly, yet turning toward the camera at the last moment in the most advantageous way and smiling faintly.
"We writers make everything up... So I'll have proof of your existence," Viktor smirked. "I'll save it in my contacts list under the phone number you'll give me now."
"You're so bold... Don't you want to know my name first?"
"It doesn't matter," Viktor replied, continuing to rummage through his phone. "I've already saved you as 'Neighbor.' I don't have any other neighbors here anyway. Give me the number..."
"Well, go ahead and write it down... Plus eight... Two hundred thirty-three..." Natalia began dictating, leaning slightly and looking at the screen. "What if you get another neighbor here?"
"One no less attractive?" the writer asked, looking away from the screen without showing any emotion.
"Let's say so."
"I'll write her down as 'Neighbor 2'."
"That's offensive."
"Don't worry. At least for my phone book, you'll always be number one."
"What a nasty guy you are!" the girl remarked.
"And a very calculating nasty guy," Viktor added.
"This is something I'll definitely remember and include in the bill next time I provide my unskilled assistance," Viktor smiled.
"And a very calculating nasty guy," Natalia added.
"This is my business card. It says so right there," the writer suddenly took out a slightly worn card from his pocket and handed it to his companion.
"Why do you carry them around in the forest?" she asked, taking the worn card from the writer's hand.
"Just happened to fall into my hands."
"I thought it was just in case I meet some attractive neighbors."
"A good idea. I'll keep that in mind for the future. There's your number and your name..."
"I'll still write you down as 'That Writer'," Natalia smiled and took Viktor's arm again. "By the way, about your unskilled assistance... They're supposed to deliver furniture to me at the end of the week. Someone will have to assemble it."
"Do you suppose it'll be me?" the writer voiced an almost rhetorical question to the girl.
"You're perceptive... Writers really see through people. Unlike us superficial photographers," she remarked somewhat sarcastically.
"So we'll see each other at the end of the week?"
"No... Did you really decide to offend me today? Did I displease you so much?"
"On the contrary," Viktor blushed. "You pleased me..."
"Well, why wait until the end of the week? Why don't we meet tomorrow? Let's meet here... You can sit on this bench. Or, as you like, bury yourself in the leaves. Just not too deep, so I can find you..."
"I'm not against it, actually..." the writer mumbled, clearly not expecting such a decisive turn of events.
"So, until tomorrow?"
"Yes, until tomorrow."
"Or maybe we should kiss goodbye?" Viktor suddenly asked, gathering courage.
"You're so bold... Such things should be done, not said," Natalia laughed and looked intently into his eyes. "And besides... It's still too early now. And already too late. So we'll just go home."
"You're right," the writer agreed with Natalia. "Until tomorrow..."
"Know what came to my mind... Maybe we really knew each other in childhood? Your house was over there, behind that bend to the right at the end of a long maple alley. You came almost every summer and spent the whole day swimming with your father in the river. And I was left here with my grandmother for only a month. I ran around the forest for a long time, played hide-and-seek, imagined some adventures, and then, when it was already getting dark, I ran home, and my grandmother made a delicious cherry pie..."
"Maybe," the writer shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly.
"We can just take and invent this story. And it will exist. After all, invented stories are no worse than real ones. Right?"