I was riding on the Old Ciabatta Express that New Year’s Eve. The coffee they served me reminded me that my car needed its oil changed. The Italian sandwich on ciabatta bread reminded me that my shoes needed new soles. The seats in the café car were too close to the tables on the back side for comfort. I spent the trip facing backwards so there would be a space between me and the table. I set up my baby computer on the table and wrote the whole way. I peeked once into the adjacent coach to see if I would rather sit there. It was nearly empty, but the café car had no one in it but the staff. Their cheerfulness did not interrupt me. There were no seatbacks to block the view and the lighting and table height were good for writing. I was in a mood to write. I was in the mood for love, but my love was on an airplane bound for Kuala Lumpur, so writing would have to do. I was on my way home to an empty bed, blues in the night, no one in the kitchen, not even Dinah. I was on the way to a New Year’s party that I would not reach until an hour into the New Year. I had chosen to stay with my sweetie an hour longer, to linger in the moonlight, with my sweeter than sweet, my dolly, my ducky, my sweet so-and-so. And so I rode, ass-backwards into the unknown year ahead.