Chapter 14: The Sinking of the Titanic and the Man Who Was "Molecule"
- Mar 1
- 3 min read
There are moments in Tinderland when you feel like a homeless person begging for attention, and there are moments - rare as a solar eclipse - when you feel like the queen of the class. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the "threesome" landed on me. No, not
The team included:
Roy, who had just returned from a retreat in the Himalayas, didn't really connect with us.
Nimrod the Golfer: A man of the great world, interesting. We met for coffee. It was nice. Period.
Lior (the jewel in the crown): Oh, Lior. We'll talk about him.
Lior: The Marine Fantasy
Lior came from "Alpha." The website for academics, the place where men are supposed to be as high-quality as wine that has aged in oak barrels (and not like milk that has soured in the sun). His profile was intriguing: divorced and widowed, living on a yacht in the marina. A yacht! I immediately imagined us sailing into the sunset, drinking champagne in front of the waves, me in a wide-brimmed hat and him in a knotted captain's hat.
He was on a visit abroad when we started corresponding. Distance, as we know, is the best fuel for fantasies. The correspondence was intense. He was eloquent, poetic (too much?), and conveyed depth. When we talked about the situation in Israel, he wrote me the following immortal sentence:
He was a "man of touch" (a prior statement on WhatsApp). Loves music. Like me. We exchanged songs. I sent him Shiko Buarki and Brazilian music (my soul), and he? He responded dryly:
The meeting: October 7th and the illusion
He landed in Israel on October 6. Loaded timing. We met the next day, on the anniversary of the massacre. There was something symbolic, heavy, and moving about it. He came to me. He looked good. Relative to his age, of course. Blue eyes, hands like a working man (washing the deck, after all). There was a connection. Partial. It didn't take him more than half an hour and he suggested that we lie down close and listen to music together. Without speaking. I drifted off. At some point he hurried back to the deck and I fell into a deep sleep. 90% of the time he stayed at my house he was silent. An awkward and oppressive silence. I tried with all my might to fill the paralyzed space between us, but I guess I was talking mostly to myself.
The Fall: From Molecule to Automaton
Then I understood. As soon as the physical distance disappeared and we became real people within touching distance - Lior became a robot. The messages became laconic telegrams. "Good morning." "Good night." "How are you?" Where are the deep conversations? Where is the poetry? Where is the complex molecule? I tried to spark a conversation. I sent poems, I sent thoughts. In return, I received an emoji or two. He became a "beard." Sending headlines without content.
I began to feel the emptiness. I wrote to him:
His response? A counterattack.
Reciprocity! The favorite word of men who don't invest an emotional penny. "Why aren't you calling?" he asked. Why aren't I calling? Because you've been draining me for four days with bot messages on Telegram!
The Last Call: The Scream and the Disconnect
It ended with a phone call. I tried to explain that I needed communication, interest, emotion. Him? He didn't understand what I wanted from his life. As far as he was concerned, he sent a "good morning," so he was fine. The tones rose. He, the "sensitive" man from the marina, turned out to have a very short fuse. He shouted. He got angry. He couldn't contain any criticism or request for real closeness. Then, in the middle of my sentence, he did the most mature and gentlemanly thing: he slammed down the phone.
Hang up. Boom. I was left with the (metaphorical) receiver in my hand, stunned. The man who wrote about "human fabric" behaved like a road bully.
Summary: The Sinking of the Titanic (Emotional)
Lior returned to his yacht (which may actually be a pedal boat, who knows). I stayed on the shore, dry, but at least not drowning in a sea of indifference and manipulation.
Conclusion: Men who live on yachts are used to everything moving and swaying. They are not built for stable emotional ground. And those who define themselves as "molecules" end up being just hot air.
Next.
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