I met M. on Tinder. When we matched I’d been swiping without the intention of actually meeting anyone. I’d added several sexy photos to my profile, linked the 1975’s “Love It If We Made It” and wrote a disclaimer: “Here to look at your pics and fantasize about the relationship we’ll never have.”

I’d become jaded.

I also didn’t view myself as a good catch because I was still sorting things out — like finding an apartment, establishing a career and generally figuring out my purpose in life.

But back to M. For our first date I met him at his apartment in North Hollywood and we drove to Iroha Sushi in Studio City. I remember one of my friends cautioned me, “Don’t meet at his apartment! You’ll never make it to the restaurant.” But M. seemed different. He was waiting for me in the lobby and greeted me with a Tom Ford cologne-scented hug. “You hungry?” he asked as we walked through the garage to his black Lexus coupe.