Who Says You Can’t Find “The One” on the Road?

The first time I met this hunk was in Austria in 2006 and he was going by the name knackerl. Since that time, I’ve looked back on him fondly, remembering the quiet mornings we shared with tea and smoked ham. Grief pulling at my heartstrings in the way we parted that last day. Me, chewing him out. Him, surrendering to my vicious gnashing. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

They say that an astounding number of people meet the love of their life in the supermarket. I had always dismissed this as nonsense until yesterday at Bellecour when I wandered into the monop express. There he was. Waiting. As if he knew our reunion was inevitable.

Of course, he’d assumed a new name in France. I couldn’t hold it against him. Didn’t we both deserve a fresh start? From the moment I put him in my basket, he sidled up next to the saucisson just like old times, and I knew that we were meant to be together. Ah, my little knackerl. How I have missed you.