He followed a schedule, ran in a club. He studied his training and his diet, figuring equations, drinking PowerAid and Gel, comparing that to a banana. She logged the details of her running in a journal: how the air felt on her skin, green or gray, silent, if she’d run through rain or sleet or snow, or gotten heat stroke. He ran miles, timing each of them, getting ready for the Boston. She talked about Chicago, where she crossed the finish vomiting and walking, people cheering, saying, yes you can. She talked about endorphins. He said he didn’t get them. They both wore Nikes and drank vodka. They had a mutual friend who they’d met at an intersection.
Kim Chinquee is the recipient of a Henfield Prize and a Pushcart Prize. She writes flash fiction, short stories, novels, nonfiction, and poetry. She is a regular contributor to Noon, Denver Quarterly, Conjunctions, and has also published work in Ploughshares, The Nation, Storyquarterly, Fiction, Mississippi Review, and over a hundred other journals and anthologies. She is the author of the collections Oh Baby, Pretty and Pistol, senior editor of ELJ (Elm Leaves Journal), and associate editor of New World Writing. She lives in Buffalo, NY.