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Chicago

“Do you exist?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?”

“Cogito, ergo–”

“Not good enough.” Chicago shakes her head. “I don’t believe that anymore, there’s nothing to it. It’s turtles all the way down.”

“Have you got something better?”

“I don’t have to offer anything,” she says, “strictly.”

Grand nods. “Just getting your kicks in at dead white guys, then. Real productive.”

“No.” She goes to the railing and leans over. “I am because I demand to be.”

He picks up the soccer ball and spins it. “Makes you want to spit, right?”

“I bet I can hit that guy,” she says.

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