By the time I walked through the door yesterday evening, I was tired. Pale tired. Roommates ask if you're OK, you're so pale tired.

But good tired. Mostly. I think.

My last Boston venture included a lot of writing time - in coffeeshops, on benches, on the T (that I can actually read that last collection of notes still amazes me). I have pages upon pages of thoughts that resulted, much stream of consciousness recorded because I simply had the time to think.

Not so much this time. I'd planned on having streches of alone time, armed with my journal, iPod and the book Beth and let me borrow earlier in the week. And while I did manage to devour "The Lovely Bones" (note to anyone: read it. Just read it now.) during a voracious late-night reading session, the other items were quickly rendered unnecessary.

I'm a strong proponent for me time. But it felt lovely to set that aside and focus instead on feeling loved, spending time with the people I care about. So it was a busy, tiring weekend. But a good one...

- The window bar at Starbucks was hot property. The only property, actually. The only available seating space consisted of six or seven chairs positioned below a narrow counter spanning the floor-to-ceiling window. There were about 10 people in line, with five seats already occupied by patrons in various stages of coffee consumption. The odds weren't good for those hoping to sit and sip.

But then I saw people start to stand behind those finishing up their drinks. Not close enough to encroach on the person sitting, but close enough to warn off anyone similarly minded. My spot. Find your own. The caffeinated version of parking spot battles, minus the blinkers.

Yet one seat was free. One without counter space, thus rendered impractical by those carrying messenger bags or laptops. But perfect for me to settle into, my latte in one hand, the book I was about to begin in the other. And no one to stand behind me and grimace as I fell into Susie Salmon's narrative...

- Instores are strange. Or at least this one was - and I haven't any other experiences to which to compare it.

It's the middle of the day, and you've studied every single copy of Ryan Adams' available discography, including the German import of a Cold Roses album with two stickers. One marking up the price by six dollars, the other proclaiming the import status. Other than that, no difference to the good ol' American copy.

But this is your spot, in the As, among those who have cut class, ducked out for a long lunch or taken a similar trip to partake in mid-day music. You're not going anywhere, they're not going anywhere, and the instore has yet to begin. So you study the albums. Again.

You turn back to check out an Aerosmith box set when you see the beautiful grin of a dear friend you hadn't expected to see here; you happily relinquish a spot alone in the As for a place next to a friend in the Fs and Gs.

You and she are a different kind of instore audience, demonstrated when the set begins and you're both still absentmindedly flipping through the rows of CDs. You see her long fingers pass over the merchandise, her eyes down with a soft smile on her face. You're reveling in the warm consistency of music that manages to soothe you, make you chuckle and sigh at the same time. Matt's music brings you subtle joy, and this atypical performance setting makes you take a step back and just let it comfort you.

While the giddier fans crane their necks for a better view and belt out the words, you and she just hum along and smile.

- My presence in City Hall Plaza is unusual enough. But a circus ringmaster, top hat and all? A patriot I can write off, but this is just strange. He tips his hat as I walk by with a quizzical look. I can't help but giggle.

- The breeze that has been whipping my hair about gusts up as I cross an intersection of Cambridge Street, and I temporarily feel as if I'm being hurried by nature down the road to the base of Beacon Hill.

- I'm pleased to see that chivalry isn't dead. I am a highly independent, self-sufficient kind of girl. But it's lovely to be looked out for on occasion. And if the occasion happens to be the moment a maiden fair realizes rain drops are beginning to speckle cars - and that she has seemingly everything imaginable in her bag other than an umbrella? All the better.

- She jokes that she's unintentionally ruined two of my favorite songs for me by linking them to real life, and I playfully grimace, roll my eyes. But she hasn't - I'd long ago created the same links in my mind. That's actually why they are among my favorites...

- I meet him in Central Square, and we chat as we walk to the T. We continue on the red line, to the green line, the walk to Allston. About 45 minutes of animated, comfortable catchup.

When we settle into our chairs at Grasshopper and the waitress sets down the pot of tea, he folds his arms and looks expectantly across the table at me. "So..."

I burst into laughter as he explains that he'd been waiting for me to bring it up. He wanted to ask as soon as he'd seen me, but he forced himself to hold off until we were sitting face to face, armed with tea.

So.

- Two things:
1) I like vegan cheesecake ala Grasshopper almost as much as I like real cheesecake.
2) I really, really, REALLY like cheesecake.

- We were both heading back to Central Square, so we settled into seats and stared out the opposite windows. Both tired, full and content, we let each other sit in comfortable silence, our minds dozing since our bodies couldn't. Occasionally, I'd rest my head on his shoulder. Sometimes he'd do the same. I loved the fact that we didn't need to fill every moment of our meetups with the act of catching up. I might be a few hours away, but we are still close enough siblings that we have time to just sit there.

- First song of the set: All Been Said Before. Need I say more?

- I heard the scratch of pen on paper as I edited a monologue and smiled. Our writing summit had resumed, and I was happy to see what had come of the previous venture.

What I Love About Friends, Reason 73824: The writing sound was the act of card composition. A thank you to me for helping with the project. Yet there I was, feeling flattered, honored to be allowed to assist...