I arrived at the restaurant early. The place smelled of turmeric and promise. It was Middle Eastern. Sue Ellen and I could eat hummus together, I thought, the best way to kick off a friendship is sharing food. She swept in. She was beautiful—dark hair, white skin, dramatic eyebrows. We ordered. We drank our ice water. We shared the hummus. And then Sue Ellen began to talk. She talked about her elderly mother getting sick and having to care for her. She talked about the strain this had put on her marriage and on her sex life with her lover (!). She talked about how she had had a few miscarriages, and her feelings about those, and about the fight she had had with her sister, who understands neither the lover nor their mother.

Through these topics, I jumped in with a few stories of my own. I will spare you them. But they were intimate in nature. I felt that if Sue Ellen was sharing, I should share. We were starting a friendship here. I had to do my part. I could not sit there for two hours eating pita bread.

After a final glass of mint tea, we kissed goodbye on the cheeks. I started walking back to the office, thinking, "What did I say to this woman?" I felt mortified and, worse, pillaged, even though it was I who had done the pillaging by sharing too much when I wasn't exactly comfortable. Further, I couldn't help but wonder, "Did Sue Ellen tell everybody this stuff—marital affair to unborn child?"

At home, I stopped by the refrigerator, pulled out a cheese stick (who do you think eats a third of the bag?) and sat down at the table. The top of each cheese stick package is marked with a black arrow implying "pull down." I held onto it, the way I always do, making sure to get enough of the plastic between the tips of my fingers to remove it down in one long, exquisite rip—a rip that must be carefully managed (not too slow, not too fast) in order to keep the plastic from tearing and the cheese stick from breaking in half, a rip that makes a r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rip sound that is so innately gratifying to your senses, that I can only compare it to the joy of squishing your finger into the shrink-wrap covering a lump of ground supermarket hamburger.

And—bingo!—I realized that the reason why my kids loved cheese sticks wasn't the fancy plastic package at all, it was the rip. The kids, like me, love the attention the act requires, the noise it makes, the time it takes and the cheese it ultimately reveals. This is a concept we adults sometimes forget—in our rush to connect with people on the Web or at a cocktail party, in our rush to forge friendships we think we ought to have at this particular stage in our personal lives, in our rush to make people love us before they race off and find somebody else to love more.

Maybe Sue Ellen felt the same pressure I did (time to make a friend right now!). Or maybe she just tells everybody everything. Or maybe she felt instantly close to me, for some reason I don't yet understand. But I know for myself, when it comes to relationships, I can't cope with a 30-minute round of speed intimacy. I don't feel comfortable sharing that fast—or being the emotional receptacle of those that do.

What I'm looking for from a friend, and from myself, is the rip—that slow process by which she or I gradually, and with great attention, tear through our external packages and share not just information, but the feeling that comes with such a rare and delicate revelation.

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