Last night, a friend took me on a midnight bike ride through the Loop. “The skyscrapers reflect the moon,” he said. “No bankers crowd the streets. You have to see it.”

The air was warm and my bike creaked as we rode down Wells. The feeling of emptiness was pervasive: the only signs of movement were a few cabs, some drunk Cubs fans, and a ninety year old woman outside Panera with her arms crossed across her chest.

The image gave me pause. Why is a woman her age up past midnight, let alone by herself, in the middle of downtown, outside a deserted sandwich shop?

Like any writer, I can only pen my way to an answer.

Maybe she is waiting for the first Cuban Chicken Panini of the morning.

Maybe she wants a cop to pass so she can ask for help to collapse a broken ironing board.

Maybe she is a new generation of Hipster Grandma, stepping out from an Indie show to smoke a cigarette and look for trouble.

Or maybe I should take Fiction I, so I can really write myself closer to her truth.