Chapter 4: "Available", Clint Eastwood and the Split Account

December 2024. Winter. I have one iron rule on Tinder: don't go beyond the 3 km radius. It's not a matter of geographic racism, it's simply practice. At our age, traveling too long is a recipe for back pain, material fatigue, and wasting time on disappointments. My area is my fortress.

But then Kobi arrived from Rishon LeZion. Rishon LeZion. The city of malls and Superland.

For me, it's like traveling abroad without a passport. And yet... the picture. Oh, the picture. In the picture, Kobi looks like the Israeli version of Clint Eastwood. But not the Clint of Hollywood, but the Clint of the kibbutzim. Silver stubble, a plaid flannel shirt, a rugged look that saw tractors and cows and open spaces. Something about him conveyed a masculinity of the past, one that didn't need a way to find the north.

I swore that more than 3 km was the end of the world to the left, but winter takes its toll on judgment, and the reverse is less pleasant when you're alone under it. I decided to break the tools (and the odometer). I sent him a small, hesitant icon of stars.

Here is the exact transcript, which will be used as evidence in court for failed dates: Yael: 💫

A minute passed. Then came the answer. The single word that made me mistakenly think it was a plumber or a washing machine technician and not a Latin lover: Kobi Rishaltz:

Thanks for insisting...

The good, the bad, and the naked gaze

We set it. Since I'm already breaking geographical rules, I decided I'd make the rules. No more coffee shops with soggy coffee. I want a restaurant. A gourmet restaurant. I chose a place with white tablecloths and prices that make you appreciate every bite.

He arrived. Well, he wasn't Clint Eastwood. Maybe Clint's double in the scenes where he's seen from afar, in the dark, and from behind. He was shorter, wider, and the flannel had been replaced with a leather-like jacket that was in fashion when I was pregnant with Shira. He had strange tics in his mouth and a tongue that rolled between his lips in a strange way. I tried to ignore it. We sat down. And from that moment on, the show began.

Kobi didn't talk much. He mostly... stared. He stared at me intently, smiled creepyly, and undressed. Not undressing in a romantic "I want you" way, but undressing in a "I'm checking out the merchandise at the Ramla Lod market" way. He smiled a smile that wouldn't leave his face, like a mask stuck in the laundry.

"You have eyes..." he said suddenly, while chewing focaccia. I waited for more. Deep? Smart? Sad? "...just like eyes." Wow. Shakespeare just turned over in his grave. "You are a woman... just a woman." Thanks, Kobe. Your gender diagnosis is razor sharp.

And me? As I do in the sanctuary when I'm embarrassed, stressed, or just breathing - I chattered myself to death. I filled the space with words. I talked about the weather, artificial intelligence, the political situation, and a recipe for orange soup. He just nodded, smiled his joker smile, and occasionally threw in a first-grade compliment: "You're beautiful," "What hair," "What a waste of time."

The siege of the fortress

The evening was over. It was rainy, it was cold, and he managed (with limited but consistent talent) to convince me to go to his place for coffee. "Just coffee," I told myself. "He left early, be nice." Wrong. Big wrong.

As soon as we got home, Clint Eastwood turned into an octopus. I didn't have time to put water in the kettle, and he pounced. There was no build-up, no courtship, no romance. There was a frontal assault of an armored battalion. He tried to kiss, hug, grope, all at once. I found myself in a completely bizarre situation: I, Yael, a respectable 68-year-old woman, performing ninja evasive maneuvers in my living room. "Wait, the water is boiling!" I shouted and ran to the kitchen. He came after me. "You're something, you," he muttered and tried to grab my waist. "Coby, I don't feel well," I tried the hypochondria card. "I think I have a very contagious stomach virus." That didn't stop him. "I'll make you well," he whispered. God forbid.

I realized that the Lord was not looking for coffee, not looking for conversation, and certainly not looking for love. He came with one clear goal! And he was determined to make it happen, even if I had to be a human climbing wall.

After twenty minutes of Greco-Roman wrestling, I managed to maneuver him to the door. I could see the disappointment in his eyes. He looked like a kid whose candy was taken away, only this kid was 70-plus years old and breathing heavily.

We stood on the steps. The awkward moment. "See you, eh?" I asked, more out of Polish politeness than real desire. He stopped, adjusted his leather-like coat, and blurted out: "Maybe. We'll see." Boom. I understood immediately. The gentleman was sorely disappointed. I didn't deliver the goods. I drove from Rishon, paid for gas, and didn't get a refund for the toll.

The account (literally)

The next day? Quiet. Silence. "Available" Kobi was no longer available. No message, no thanks for hosting (or for trying to host without being overbearing), nothing. But then I remembered something small. The bill at the restaurant. I, in all my chivalry (and stupidity), paid the full bill because the waiter was standing there and it was embarrassing to start calculating decimal fractions. Kobi didn't volunteer to pull out his wallet. He just smiled that smile. I offered to pay for both of us and then pay him back. He agreed.

I took a screenshot of the charge. I sent it to him on WhatsApp. No words. Just a picture of the amount, surrounded by a screaming red circle. A minute passed. A beep of a bit. He transferred me exactly, exactly, half of the amount. Not a shekel more, not a tip, not a "thank you for the evening." A cold, precise bank transfer from a failed business partner.

Interim conclusions

I was sitting in the living room, looking at the Beat's message, and I realized I had a problem. I hate coffee shops. The noise, the uncomfortable chairs, the mediocre coffee. But an invitation to your home? It's a minefield. At home, there's nowhere to run. At home, you turn from a "date" into a "fortified target" that needs to be conquered.

So what do we do? Build a neutral pergola in the middle of the street? Meet in a hospital lobby? (At least there are doctors there if someone has a heart attack from excitement).

December 2024. The rain is falling outside. Clint Eastwood has returned to the Wild West of Rishon LeZion, and I am left with half a calculation, zero love, and one painful realization: Sometimes, it's better for a man to be "unavailable."

Next.

Chapter 4: "Available", Clint Eastwood and the Split Account