The Internet worked for Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in “You’ve Got Mail.”

So she’s not available anymore.

Rumors abound about real couples who met over the Web and are still together and, ostensibly, happy.

My happily married friend Ellen once said, as long as there are more good days than bad, you’ve got something going.

My friend Vicki wants me to try the Internet to get something going.

She tried eHarmony, became disenchanted. She tried Match.com and found one maybe and one creepy.

He didn’t sound creepy when they talked on the phone. So they went out. And he told her that his wife had died.

Vicki asked how long ago.

He said, “Two weeks.”

And that’s what you can wind up with.

Heather Locklear thought she had the perfect Web romance in “The Perfect Man.” Then she found out the perfect man’s emails came from her daughter.

Danger, Will Robinson!

Thus my reluctance.

Even though hours and hours in dark theaters make it hard to meet single women — who are smart, funny, compassionate, verbal, open, honest, sensual, emotionally available, reasonably stable, like food, film, walks, nature, books, cities, and are kind to animals and imperfect men.

Or who just like a good time.

I was working on my review while riding home on BART after “Cars,” or one of the other advance screenings I saw that week.

Most films screen for Bay Area critics in San Francisco the Monday or Tuesday before they open.

I like to ride in on BART. It’s more relaxing than driving. And at $50 for for a tank of gas, it’s a bargain.

The movies generally screen at night at a theater such as the Metreon. The place is packed with people — I call them civilians — who win contests or get free tickets through radio promotions.

We watch together. Then the critics go home, write the review and send it to the office via computer.

I jot down impressions as soon as I can. It’s a head start on the final version, and, theoretically, it means an earlier bedtime.

That night I was on a roll when a woman sat down next to me. She kept glancing at my writing.

Nice looking, I noticed.

When I finished, she asked if I was a reviewer, what the film was, and did I like it?

We exchanged names. She was coming from a rehearsal, with the SF Symphony chorus or some such group; it was late. I was tired.

She may have been in her early 30s. I’m not good with ages.

She had dark curly hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Her fingers were long and thin as twigs.

She spoke enthusiastically about music theory. The more detailed her descriptions became, the more they sounded like white noise. I was surprised she didn’t notice my eyes go out of focus.

I don’t understand women. I don’t know any man who does.

If they say they do they are either lying — or unwise.

You never see Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford claiming knowledge of the secret sanctum.

Sure they look like they’ve got it down, in magazine spreads and movies.

Pitt’s physical knock-about with Angelina Jolie in “Mr. & Mrs. Smith” is metaphorically closer to the inner workings of most relationships than other cinematic couplings.

The Ford-Virginia Madsen marriage in “Firewall” offers nothing of use to the relationship-challenged.

I talked to Madsen, star of “Sideways” and the upcoming “A Prairie Home Companion,” last week in San Francisco; this is a digression, but related.

Virginia Madsen is the most gorgeous woman I have ever interviewed and I don’t dazzle easily. She glows. Even the female publicists and press members commented on it.

Virginia wore shorts. Don’t know if her movie will have legs but she certainly does.

Somehow I forgot to ask her about men and women and what we know vs. what we think we know vs. what we don’t have a clue about.

Maybe next time. If I don’t get distracted again.