Ori Fienberg has had fiction published as prose poetry, prose poetry published as fiction, and each published as they are in many places including DIAGRAM, [PANK], Mid-American Review, and Subtropics. By day he telecommutes to work for the College of Professional Studies at Northeastern University in Boston, MA. By night he explores, with his fiancée and dog, the finest bridges Pittsburgh, PA, has to offer. Occasional long-form musings can be found at ojconfesses.blogspot.com, and slightly more frequent short thoughts @OJConfesses on Twitter.
A woman makes her way through General Fiction starting with A, while a man does the same starting at Z. It takes hours; they must touch the spines of every book, they linger, paying their respects over some, before continuing their journey across names.
Meanwhile, a man dies in the mysteries section, between E and G. His white-knuckled hands are strangling a paperback book that has done him a terrible wrong. Later, as usual, the night librarian must pry it from his fingers to restock and then dust the area so the library can add to its catalog of fingerprints.
They have a book in mind, though they can’t remember the author. At last they meet: their fingers touching the heavily creased spine of the very same book. They smile at each other, but because this is a library, neither speaks.