cinnamon latte.

We return.

It is Monday, the text surprises me, as I haven't heard from him or seen him all day.

"Study session tonight?"

I hesitate, remembering that I promised my step-mom that I would actually eat dinner at home, for once. It takes me a minute or two to calculate the time, but I respond with, "What time? I told my family I would have dinner there. If you can wait until 8, then yes."

With an "Ok. Sounds good" the plans are made, and I settle in for the bus ride home, the brief shopping trip to Target, and the final walk from Lincoln to 8th. I tell my parents Nicholas is coming at 8; my step-mom sighs. Dad put the ham in late - dinner might not be ready in time.

It is, and we eat, but I'm anxious to leave - anxious to return to the atmosphere that I felt so at home in.

He orders the same thing, I order differently, and we find a spot further in the back, our previous nook occupied by a schoolmate that neither of us were expecting to see there. Sometimes I feel like Portland is a novelty to people from Vancouver. Portland? What? You mean you actually cross the I-5 Bridge?

It's a different atmosphere tonight, much louder and filled with more people, but something tells me that has more to do with our location in the coffee shop than a difference of evenings. Then again, more people spend Tuesday nights in coffee shops than Saturdays, I'm sure.

We read, take breaks, talk about things that make us think. It's the same type of evening, though the conversations and the readings are different. I let my new glasses get accustomed to my face; watching him turn over and around trying to find a comfortable position on the couch. I chose the armchair for a particular reason; he's a mover, and I was not about to get kicked in the head.

I purchase a cinnamon latte, recommended by another friend, and he chides me. "You'll be up all night," he says. "Don't drink that." I smirk and drink it anyway. "So I'm up all night," I say. "I have a lot to do in very little time."

The evening ends earlier than I would have liked, but the conversations have become more important than the homework, and I think we both knew that we could have talked for hours. Another time, maybe.

He plays a new song on the ride home, we continue our good conversations, and one last turn and a hug later I'm getting out of the car, agreeing to continue going back. It's good for both of us, these evenings. Hopefully it is the beginning of a pattern that gets us through a semester destined to be stressful.