His response was vague — something about being in Canada, getting distracted and dropping the ball. I should have known better than to ask. The reality is that if someone unexpectedly goes out of town, has to work late, gets sick, you probably will never hear from him again, despite the fact that he says he’ll get in touch when he’s back in the country, out of jail, emerged from his coma.

Everyone says you have to be happy with yourself before you can find happiness with someone else. I find that notion extremely frustrating. I am happy enough: I have a good job, great friends and live in New York City. But I am not going to say the loneliness isn’t palpable, that I don’t wake up in the middle of the night in a state of panic, wondering if I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.

This does not inspire the happiness that I am supposed to embody before I find a partner. Between panic attacks, I have continued to put myself out there, taking the advice that I often dole out to my single friends: “All it takes is one.”

This is not to be confused with “the one,” because I don’t believe in soul mates, which is pretty remarkable considering the number of romantic comedies I’ve seen (approximately all of them). By “all it takes is one,” I mean you only need to find one person.

I met Jim at Bar Reis in Park Slope. It was early fall and warm enough to sit outside. I found him at a picnic table in the backyard, where it was fairly dark. We chatted about work, then we talked about where we grew up. I mentioned that I’m from Los Angeles, and he asked about my ethnicity. I told him that everyone in Los Angeles thought I was Persian, but in New York everyone assumes I’m Jewish (my dad is, but my mom is not).

Jim cocked his head and stared at my nose. “Well, it’s a little bit of a hook.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your nose. It’s a little bit of a hook, but not too beaky.”