I’m not what you’d normally call a morning person. I’m barely an afternoon person, but here I am, up with the fog. The sun is barely making an appearance, but it’s still warm enough for shorts and a hoodie. It’s just me, a slow-ass jogger who I swear hasn’t moved in ten minutes, and an older man sitting on the other bench closer to the lake.

The older man is wearing a trench coat, like the kind college students wear before they go streaking though the library during finals week. Which is exactly what me and my freshman roommate Alan Ziedler did, except underneath our coats we were wore matching bright red Speedos. Across the front, Alan’s swimsuit read “You.” Mine read “Wish.” Young men — we are a humble species.

Freshman year – that was almost seven years ago. It’s been three years since I graduated, one since I moved out here, and six weeks since I started sneaking out of bed in the morning to come here. I kiss my girlfriend on the left cheek before I leave, and on the right one when I come back in. I’m sure she knows, but as long as I’m back before breakfast, she pretends not to notice.

Today is the morning of my 25th birthday. Before I go out with my girlfriend and the small cast of friends I have out here to celebrate or mourn, I sit. On this old, wooden bench at the corner of Lakeshore and Foothill, looking out at Lake Merritt in all its majestic, odorous glory…