“A Princess Leia who has never seen ‘Star Wars.’ ” Luke shook his head in wonder.

Of course, I didn’t get the significance of his being named Luke either.

We agreed to meet up two days later.

After showing me around his apartment, Luke hugged me, caressing my back with firm hands as his tongue found mine. We moved to the couch, and I sat on his lap, shedding my clothing, wrapping my arms around his neck. The moment was so intense I could not stop myself from moaning, “I love you.”

Eyes wide, Luke told me he loved me too.

I knew about love of God, the complete abdication of personal will to fulfill divine commandments. I knew about my mother’s love for my father: She hovered at his shoulder with a dish of food and a laugh for his jokes, her ever-pregnant belly stretching the front of her sweaters. But I had never encountered true love in the secular world. This must be what it feels like, I thought. A physical feeling that takes your breath away.

There had been several men in the months before Luke: the guy with 11 fingers, the married Orthodox colleague, the young Jehovah’s Witness, the Israeli techie and the Irish bartender.

Luke was different from those random flings. We talked like old friends about books, Brooklyn, our lives. The next morning, when we hugged goodbye, it felt as if we had already shed a layer of defenses that usually took months to peel away. Our connection seemed deep and profound. On my way home, I let myself imagine what it might be like to wake up every morning with him. I tried on his last name. I wondered what kind of father he might be.

The next time I saw him, he admitted he had a girlfriend. He liked me, but he would not leave her. His confession punctured my dreams, yet I was determined to make it work, whatever “it” was.