At 32, I didn’t believe in love. I was only on the dating app for window shopping.

Alone in the evening, I would spend the last five minutes before bed scrolling through online profile pictures, amused by the men wearing dog collars, the men without shirts, the men with their tongues hanging out. Most disturbing were the men who did not correct their spelling errors and used acronyms only my 13-year-old son would have been able to decipher.

It was tough searching for a partner when love was not something I fully believed in. I loved my son, of course, and every member of my immediate family except my tyrannical father whose moods we tiptoed around growing up. But when it came to romantic relationships, I had never experienced that ooey-gooey feeling romantics everywhere seemed to feel. They called it love; I called it stupidity.

Also, where was mine?

I was about to deactivate my account when I came across Richard. He wasn’t too muscular, too posey or too naked. He wore an effortless smile, and his tongue was well-placed inside his mouth. His bio said: “Please don’t send a wink. Let’s have a conversation!”

A reasonable request, but it did put the onus on me. For “religion,” he described himself as agnostic. I decided to start the conversation there.

“Hi Richard,” I wrote. “I’m always interested in people’s spiritual beliefs. What does agnostic mean to you?” Over the years I have found it can mean “I’m not interested” or “I’m curious, open to possibilities.”