The Day Jean-Francois Met Them.

As I approach the door half way open to the small conference room in the corner, I can feel my hands sweating with anticipation. My mind is playing over and over again, like it always does, the different possible scenarios that could go on inside that room: from a hand shake, the way that girl will be crossing her legs, the questions they might ask, all the way to the time when we say bye-bye and shake hands for the last time in there.

When I instructed the receptionist to grant them visitor passes and to take them to the small conference room in the corner -that particular conference room- it never occurred to me what has always been in my mind. I've never realized before, that no matter how important or how many people I was going to met, my first choice was always that small conference room in the south-western corner of the building. A big chunk of the people that work on my floor are gone by 5 o'clock; and those who stay are clearly lock down in their offices trying to wrap up whatever they manage to accomplish that day; their mine focus on the rush hour and their suburban homes. Maybe the reason why I like that conference room in the corner, the south western corner of the building, is the warmth that you can feel in there in these early winter days, plus the magic of witnessing a sunset.

Walking slow but with confidence, my chin up, I take a deep breath and without loosing thrust I cross the door and step into the conference room.

There's three people sitting on the opposite side of a round table, all facing the door, all locking their eyes on me: scanning me, watching me, judging me, trying to get a first impression of me that will last for the rest of their lives, trying to read on those two steps that I took inside the room, on my neck tie, my perfectly polished black shoes, my brown eyes behind prescription glasses whom they've just come across with, and above of all, if it was worth at all.

I already know their faces and names, their real names. I know what they do for living, what they like and dislike, what they eat, what moves them, what car they drive, what their background is, who they consider a friend and a foe. Without knowing them, I do know them.

On the other hand, they know what I stand for and what I think of a whole variety of topics. But don't know a single detail of my life, perhaps they know some things about my daily life, a couple of stories about my job and know a little bit of my love life. They know as much as they have been able to figure out, and as little as I've told them. Don't even know how I look like, other than my description and a picture taking when I was 6 years old.

But they wanted to know me, and it took them a great deal of effort and time to find me. Why bother? Just for the thrill of it I guess, increased when I told them that they would have to find out who I was, because I was not going to tell them.

Those two steps that I take inside the room, while looking at them, where towards the wall-size window that showed a perfect picture of the city at dusk; that yellow sun moving slowly towards the line of the horizon among the skyscrapers. I lean against the bulletproof glass window, my left hand inside my pocket while I hold a blackberry in my right hand.

This is my favorite room in the whole building -I say looking outside, like if I was talking to myself.

If one day I make it all the way to the top, I'll put my office here, right here in this corner, and then I could say that I reached one of my goals in life!

I turn to them with a tired yet "ice breaking" smile, just to find a brick wall in their faces. They're still analyzing me, trying to figure out how my red hair and my strange accent fit in their previous picture of me. I would say they look puzzle, not knowing what to think yet.

I turn my head towards the window, and while the last rays of light reflect in my face I keep talking: Sunsets remind me of my childhood, and somehow of my Dad, even though I can barely remember him by my side while I was growing up. I would say late summer sunsets are my favorite ones. Those red tones in sky, reminds me that Fall, my favorite season, is just around the corner.

Then I recount a couple of unconnected stories about my childhood, spent outside the United States in a whole difference universe -both geographical and in time-, but they don't say a word; they don't need to. It is my turn to talk and they are eager to listen.