Chapter 15: Even a witch's intuition sometimes needs glasses

Okay, stop everything. Put aside the popcorn you've been chewing in front of the stories of the misers who asked for half-and-half on tap water, or those who thought the sun shone on the wrong side of their backs.

This episode isn't another failed romantic comedy; it's the moment I realized that Tinderland isn't just a playground with rusty swings, but a dark forest where the wolf not only dresses up as a grandma - he also sells you tickets to his lecture on "female empowerment in the third age."

Very nice, I'm Yael. A degree in behavioral sciences, an intuition that would make the Salem witches turn pale with envy, and the life experience of three divorced women plus a cat. And with all this magnificent resume - I fell. And not just for nothing, I did a backflip into a pit that hired me not just any douchebag, but a psychopath with a diploma.

Act One: The Temptation (or: How I Swallowed the Bait, the Rod, and the Fisherman's Boots)

It started as high as possible. Ronen from Tel Aviv. His profile didn't scream "I'm looking for love," but whispered confidently: "I'm a tormented intellectual looking for the muse who will understand my genius." Witty, sharp, and sarcastic just enough to make me smile like a fool in front of the screen.

The conversations with him? Forget "Awake?" at 2 a.m. We're talking about two-and-a-half-hour marathons, deep conversations into the night about the meaning of life (mostly his own life, but who's counting). He built a character of the Israeli Tony Stark: a man of the great world, an inventor, a tycoon with businesses in Iceland (obviously, because Petah Tikva isn't exotic enough), and an adventurer who meets people most of us only see in National Geographic. He was the knight in the white Tesla, and me? I was the princess in the tower just waiting for someone with a fast charger.

He knew how to push all the buttons. Am I romantic? Get songs on WhatsApp. Do I like food? Get an erotic description of "pasta conch" in a long cooking that he will prepare

Act Two: Glitches in the Matrix

But like any Turkish soap opera, cracks began to appear. There was something about it... how to say it? Aggressive, but disguised as "high humor that you just don't understand." His favorite nickname was "Polish girl," and he would throw out sentences that would have made my psychologist call an ambulance. When I asked what was the matter, he explained that I was simply not on his intellectual level. Pearls like: "I'm completely fucked up but positively fucked up" (is there such an animal? Like good cholesterol?) or "Anyone who is afraid is stupid... sorry hahahaha." Sorry for what? For being creepy on horror movie levels?

He controlled the pace of the relationship like a little dictator in North Korea. Disappearing for hours, then returning with grandiose excuses that made "the dog ate my lessons" sound like sworn testimony. Dikla, the friend who is essentially my external intuition when the intern is on leave, smelled something fishy. "Sounds suspicious," she wrote. "Aleek met with a CEO... Google him." But I was too busy being in love with the idea of love.

Act Three: CSI Conference Room

Wednesday. Staff meeting. Eight people discussing boring procedures that would make even caffeine fall asleep. The phone vibrates. Ronen. Another cancellation. Another far-fetched cover story about an urgent trip that he "just found out about." Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe the intuition that woke up from the floor, I sent him a message half-jokingly: "Say, Ronen, are you sure you're not some Tinder scammer in the Ali Express version 😜? I think I need to check you out." He replied with the confidence of someone who thinks he's God: "Okay... go for it."

So I went for it. While my CEO talks about quality standards, I'm running a Shin Bet under the desk. One Google search, one Enter, and my jaw met my knees. A huge headline flickered before my eyes. I fell. I didn't just fall, I dived headfirst into a real con man's den, with receipts, articles, and photos. The man who wrote me poems about butterflies is a serial con artist. The "obsessive writing"? It's not romance, it's a working method.

I looked around the conference room. People were talking about work, about normal life, and I was holding a device in my hand through which I was conducting a virtual affair with a lousy impostor who thought he was the king of the world. At that moment I understood everything: the cancellations, the disappearances, the "busy at the institute" - it was all one big show.

Postmortem analysis (or: How the hell did this happen to me?)

How did I, Yael, fall into the trap? Very simple: malignant narcissism meets a borderline personality with the charisma of a religious preacher. Ronen "love-bombed" me according to the book. He identified exactly what I was missing - intellect, romance, someone who "sees" me - and became exactly that thing, like an emotional chameleon on Speed.

He wasn't looking for love, he was looking for a victim. He was looking for someone to inflate his ego (and maybe later his bank account). His line "I'm a positive fuck" echoes in my head. He actually told me the truth to my face, and I thought it was modern poetry.

End of the matter

I blocked him immediately.

I didn't say a word, I didn't demand explanations. I simply faded into digital silence, leaving him to wonder if I had boarded him or had simply been abducted by aliens (the latter option suddenly makes more sense to me).

Conclusion? When someone sounds too good to be true - they're probably a little Tinder crook living in a movie where he's the director, the actor, and the only audience. When he calls himself a "knight on a white horse," don't think Richard Gere. Think more along the lines of Simon Leviev, only without the private jet.

There's no "next" this time. I need a long shower, some burnt sage, and maybe an exorcist.

Chapter 15: Even a witch's intuition sometimes needs glasses