I scroll through his Instagram account. There is a link to it on his Cinder profile. He is an architect. He posts pictures of animals. They are not stock photos, and nor are they photos of his own animals. They seem to be pictures of his friends’ pets, and of animals he encounters during his peregrinations around Cape Town and the rest of the world. He captions them with loving observations of their beauty and just enough anthropomorphism to be endearing without descending into sickliness.

Under a photo of an elderly, grey-muzzled mongrel: “I, Tiresias . . . perceived the scene, foretold the rest.”

Under a photo of a fat black cat: “I just asked Nero here who ate all the pies and he gave me a Look.”

Under a photo of a tiny lovebird nibbling his ear: “My heart belongs to this Tanzanian beauty.”

It is hard not to be beguiled. He knows T.S. Eliot well enough to place the ellipsis correctly. He has a charming sense of humour. He has a warm and loving heart.

Scattered in among the animals are bottles of craft beer nestling next to tall glasses with foaming heads. They stand on battered wooden surfaces with platters of vegan sliders in the background.

There are stills from black-and-white European movies. There are photos with quotes from famous feminists—bell hooks, Maya Angelou, Ama Ata Aidoo, Toni Morrison. The number of likes and comments under his posts tell me he is well anchored in a network of family and friends. Some of them are people I know. That’s right—we have mutual acquaintances. I realise I know his sister Lula slightly from university. She was in a different faculty, but we were in the same residence for a year.

This is no spambot or dummy profile set up to harass women. This is a living, breathing person who has expressed an interest in me. I remind myself why it wouldn’t be a good idea to reply to him. I’m too fragile. I am nowhere near ready to be normal around a man. My issues will doom us from the start.

Then I remember that I initiated this process for a reason. I am lonely and sexually deprived. Yes, I was drunk at the time, but it was the vino that brought out the veritas, and the veritas in this situation is that I want to meet someone. The problem with this Eugene Huzain is that he is too perfect. He is relationship material while I am looking for a sex partner. I should put a pin in him for now and come back to him when I’ve had some one-night stands.

Of course, no one is queuing up to offer me a one-night stand. My Cinder profile has elicited nothing but abuse—abuse and this one kind message from Eugene. Before I can think about it too much, I type a reply and hit send.