With a knife twist of self loathing Paul looked down at his boutonniere, a blush of pink on his black tux. In disgust he tore at the tiny thing and flung it into the passenger seat. That was the past; she was the past. The rolling farm fields of Sherbrooke welcomed him home once again.

He winced and blinked as he barely missed a cowcatcher left to rust by the side of the road. Dallas to Quebec had been a long drive, especially to return here, a town seemingly forgotten by modern progress. He half expected to find a Model T in every driveway, and a gramophone in every home.

Sadly, or perhaps not so sadly, it had been so long he found himself lost. Spying a roadside stand he let his car coast to a stop and stuck his head out, “Stuff looks good. How big are those melons?”

“In avoirdupois or metric,” the strapping local lad quipped, a wise guy apparently.

He sighed, “Look, it’s not a good day, what with the wedding, the cousin…”

“Whoa, don’t go all in medias res on me. You want the fruit or not?”