Chapter 8: Ninja Date and Missile in Mugrabi
- 11 hours ago
- 4 min read
After some difficult adventures, I said to myself: Yael, maybe we should try something "artistic"? Something with Tel Aviv roots? Facebook, the tireless matchmaker, brought me Yotam. A friend of a friend (supposedly). An artist, photographer, video-art creator. In the pictures, he looks like a handsome remnant of the old Tel Aviv bohemia. Silver hair, amused, a veiled gaze, and the vibe of someone who sat in a chair with Alterman (or at least drank beer in a monastery with homeless people).
A brief inquiry with the common friend brought up a clay. She doesn't know him. But another friend saw a picture and recognized him from the distant past.
Act One: Ninja Date, Potatoes, and Scents of Despair
It started, like every disaster in Tinderland, in a way that was too promising. A first date in a generic Tel Aviv cafe, everything flowed, strong vibes of "we're from the same milieu" - which in Tinder is: "We're both privileged people who live within a kilometer radius of the stage and think we're special."
The flow continued to his house, because it was just around the corner and why stop the magic? It was nice there too. Very suspicious. Then it was time to disperse. Dark, late, and Mr. "Miliard" remained lying on the couch while I navigated my way out alone. At that moment, a red light went on in my head with the intensity of a searchlight at the Bloomfield Derby. Laziness? Basic lack of gentlemanliness? I decided to flatter him with "tiredness." Mistake number one.
A few days later, I decided to take the reins and invite him over for a "ninja date." The punchline: I demonstrate culinary skills using a trendy electrical appliance (fireside potatoes, thanks for asking), and he's supposed to be charmed. It worked, he was charmed. We sat and chatted (and ate) until we got tired and threw ourselves on the couch.
And then it hit me.
He lay down, our heads approaching a potential romantic moment, and suddenly - a wave of smell. Not just any body odor, but a health hazard. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but I felt the taste of the smell settling on my tongue.
As if this blatant attack wasn't enough, while we were lying down, he also managed to raise his voice at me because "I don't understand what he's saying." Oh, I'm really sorry. Another man as full of himself as a grenade, devoid of any basic courtship skills or human connection ability, who thinks he's God's gift to women.
As soon as he was kind enough to leave, I went into emergency mode: two hours of spraying industrial air fresheners in a desperate attempt to wipe every trace of his DNA from my pillows. But the real lesson burned deeper than the smell: It's Chekhov's law of dating - whoever yells at you in the first act will scream at you in the second, and by the third it could end in a fight. You know what?
Act Two: The (Misunderstood) Farewell
After two days he called and asked if he wanted to see a movie. That way, without commitment or a relationship or anything else. I sent him a clear message:
His answer? Emojis. Magic wand, red balloon, wizard's hat. 🪄🎈🎩 I get it. The man lives in a parallel universe where a breakup is an invitation to a 4-year-old's birthday party.
Act Three: The Missile, the Shelter, and the Broken Door
Two weeks passed. Then the war came (again). One night, alarms went off in Tel Aviv. A terrifying sonic boom. The news reported: a fall in central Tel Aviv, near a former Mughrabi cinema. Yotam's house. The humanity in me (the one that causes me trouble) awakened. I sent a message:
He answered. The house was destroyed. No windows, no doors, everything was glass. He and the dog "Coco" were miraculously saved in a shelter. My heart sank. I suggested he go to a hotel. I was worried. Him? He saw this as an opportunity for a comeback.
Act Four: The Most Delusional Farewell Letter in History
A month has passed. I'm abroad, breathing the air of the peaks. Suddenly, a message from them. A long, confused text that looks like a bad "copy-paste" intended for someone else, or just a narcotic hallucination.
Yotam:
Wait, what? "Hey man"? "Contestant"? Is he writing in the feminine gender? Is he copying a letter someone wrote to him? Or is it just completely erased? And then, without a breath, he proceeds to directly attack me:
"Suddenly I saw and it was five years ago... You seem to have a heart of gold but sometimes in a safe... To court you is to belittle yourself... Because you are always around yourself... This is Yael. Despite a past in Jerusalem, we have no future in Tel Aviv."
I read and don't believe it.
He broke up with me? A month after I dumped him?
He claims I'm "in my own head"? The man who wouldn't let me get a word in and yelled at me in my living room?
"He moved to Jerusalem"? I never lived in Jerusalem with him. I also don't remember ever talking to a Yotam who is also a photographer.
I answered him what any sane woman would answer:
End of the matter
Yotam returned to his cave (or the broken-down apartment), with the smell, with the dog Coco and the alternative tobacco. I was left with an important lesson: when someone smells like a homeless person, acts like a stoner and yells at you on the second date - that's not a "tormented artist" and that's not "Tel Aviv authenticity". It's simply a sanitary and psychological hazard that needs to be removed, preferably before a missile falls on him.
Status: Blocked. (And good luck to the municipality with the evacuation).
Next.
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