"Table 9. That's Jessie's table."
Lying on his metal bed next to the tin can toilet, a man reminisces about days past, a time long before he was introduced to the tiny box in which he lives, a time when he was just a young man, sitting at Table 9 in the small diner along Route 56—the diner where he met Jessie.
I've gotten this question many times: "Is this a true story?" The answer is no. Truly, it is fiction. However, I was inspired to compose this particular work because it tells a tale that, I believe, is worth telling, and is in need of telling.
My words tend to be few when speaking to people who've not yet read the piece. I do this not because I know not how to properly synopsize what I've written, but because any explanation of the story's premise or context will, in my humble opinion, take away from the tale's impact, remove some of the weight the piece is meant to carry. What lies within the covers of Table 9 must be received as such events would unfold in life—slowly, gradually, but ever gaining momentum.