And/Of/Or

I : finis

finis (n.)
Latin
[The] End.

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"What happens at the bottom?"

"The bottom."

"You mean..."

"Maybe."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"That's scary."

"It is."

"You're not scared."

"A little."

"Why a little?"

"Because not that much."

"Why?"

"It's always 'why'. Can it just be?"

"You're not scared of the bottom?"

"It's just the bottom."

"It's the end."

"You're here."

"I'm here."

"So no."

"No you're not scared?"

"No it's not the end."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yes."

"But?"

"But it's true."

"I'm still scared."

"But I'm here."

"Yes. You're here."

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There's a theory in the world that explains second chances.

Something about alternate universes and other decisions and deja vu. Something about strings and spaces between molecules and the speed of light. Something about knowing every human in the world by seven people.

Something about words.

I couldn't tell you specifically as it would be cheating and likely politically incorrect. So I'll take out a piece from the upper middle, far right, just for you to have a taste. That way, we can leave it mostly intact, mostly correct, and someone else's problem.

The trick to second chances wasn't where you got them, but when you got them. Because most never came when you wanted, and if they did, rarely from who you wanted. But the most delicious second chances, sweet like rock candy and aspartame, were the ones you got at the worst time, from the ideal person.

They were rich. Regret.

Take a bite.

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His full name was Maximiliano Molina Romero, but only his mother got to use all that. If you sat by him during mass or fell victim to being his partner for labs or modeled for his Canon EOS 90D with 32.5 MP resolution, then it was just Maximiliano. If you served crudités with him in skyscrapers or worked regular graveyard shifts at the three nearest 7-Elevens or pet-sat Mister Button in his double-decker cage condo over weekends, then it was Maxim. But if you saw the polar bear tattooed below his hip or failed a 28-inch cheese pizza eating challenge with him or kissed him smiling more than once, then it was Max.

He was a six foot three conversation of contradictions, you see, and it made a lot of people interested in trying to cross over into that "Max" circle. He liked noble gases and rare earth metals just as much as megapixels and human faces. He liked action movies without much talking just as much as picnics with too much talking. He liked rollercoasters and hated heights. He liked mozzarella despite the lactose intolerance. He liked uneven smiles and straight hair. He knew and he didn't.