The next morning at ten minutes after eleven, Daniela rushed down the hallway of Wexler Advertizing Solutions. She had had a fitful night, and this was a meeting she really did not want to be late for. As she approached the boardroom she reflected upon how tardiness had always been one of the more negative habits of her nature. Though her joints and muscles still ached from being thrown off Baylor the day before, she had managed to pull herself together with some slight exercises and a light breakfast that morning. For this day she had chosen a tight-fitting, forest green suit with matching high heels. The skirt was a bit short and somewhat out of character for her work, but certainly inline with the way she was feeling these days—more powerful and less controlled by the people around her.

As she approached the closed door she slowed her anxious steps to a casual gait and took a deep breath to calm herself before entering. She ran her fingers tips through her full hair which was hastily styled such that it gave her stature more height and emphasized the classical features of her face. On this day she knew she would not have to knock on the boardroom door, as her presence in that room was expected to be an integral part of the proceedings, at least according to the demands of Mr. Cuomo. These were exactly the situations in life she had most hated and had tried so desperately to avoid since childhood. Why did these moments of anxiety seem to never cease for her? Nevertheless, on this day she was determined to somehow handle matters differently and to take what ever came in stride and to take it head-on.

As she entered the meeting room she smiled at those in attendance, but found the atmosphere awkwardly quiet, its half-dozen participants obviously awaiting her arrival before beginning any formalities. There, seated around the semi-circular table was Mr. Cuomo and his secretary—a perennially young-looking blond with a dour, overly made-up face whom she knew only as Vicki. Next to them was a bald gentleman whom she immediately recognized as the chairman of board of directors at Wexler, Mr. Hadley—a longtime friend of her father's. Seated more or less across from these familiar faces were the two guests donning very different attire, scheduled and ready to make their business presentation that morning concerning hi-definition, video streaming and the pop-up ads. A vacant chair was positioned—obviously for her, strategically next to the presenters from StreamStar Video Productions.

The man to whom she was to be seated closest suddenly stood and introduced himself as Bryant Sorrel, the technical director of StreamStar. He was young, around her own age, fair-haired, and projected a healthy, tan face—possibly an active skier or surfer in his free time, Daniela thought. Unlike his counterpart, he was comfortably dressed, wearing a pair of jeans with his corduroy coat and dark blue tie. His associate was older and wore a three piece charcoal suit, somehow incongruent and unpleasantly reminiscent of her father's stuffy attire.

"Gentlemen, this is Daniela Collins, our graphic arts director," Mr. Cuomo pleasantly announced, though too loudly for such a small gathering. He interjected this before Daniela could speak or take her seat. She looked across the board table at her boss and could see his eyes widen in a cryptic scolding manner for her tardiness.

Daniela cleared her throat quietly. "I'm . . . very pleased to meet you," she stated, mostly to Mr. Sorrel. The greeting came out unexpectedly in the subdued voice she had come to hate. It occurred to her that it had always been a voice of weakness and one she should have changed years ago. Daniela nodded at Mr. Sorrel, who stood, acknowledging her presence. She noticed immediately that his eyes were a striking grayish blue. She then looked back at the more sinister gaze of Mr. Cuomo. The older, white-mustachioed man, seated to the right of Mr. Sorrel remained in his executive chair and extended a hand to her as she moved near him to take her position.

"Jack Cross, Daniela," he offered. "Sales manager here for the StreamStar firm?" He spoke with a contrived enthusiasm, also a little too loudly, and with an almost painful grip of her hand.

"Our president, Mr. Bob Schrader?" he continued, making a sweep of eye contact across the entire group, "wishes you all well, and regrets that he can not be here this morning. Nevertheless . . . I think you will find our presentation of services this morning compelling? And ever valuable in how you can increase your effectiveness in the market?"

Daniela could only think of how much she loathed people who ended statements as if they were always a question.

"Mr. Schrader's absence is certainly not a problem," interjected Mr. Hadley, the Wexler chairman. Then, seeming a little impatient, he added, "So shall we get underway?"

"Certainly!" It was the cheery voice of the tanned Mr. Sorrel again who once more stood up, this time taking from his briefcase a laptop computer. He opened it and deftly plugged a USB cable into its side port, placing the broad device on the center table and connecting several cables which seemed to be growing out of the table's surface. There was a humming sound as he adjusted the audio and soon a large picture appeared on the wall screen in front of the group. It was that of a typical commercial webpage

Mr. Sorrel cleared his throat and began his much rehearsed commentary. "Well I'd like to begin this morning by having you all tell me what you see here on this typical consumer's computer screen."

The group was reluctant and silent.

Mr. Cuomo, wishing things to go well, chimed in as if on cue. "Well . . . it's pretty generic, as I see. An ad for . . . what looks like a travel agency? I see hotels, package tours . . . the usual fare."

"That's good. You got it. A travel agency webpage. And, you are so right, Mr. Cuomo. The usual. But let's be honest. It's dead. Boring and static! Nothing here really to catch our eye, right? Minimal photos, monotonous text. Nothing to say, 'HEY, I'M HERE! And most importantly, there's nothing moooooving. Ok? Am I wrong, folks?"

Mr. Sorrel looked directly at Daniela. He waited for a response. But there was also something curious in his look that seemed to be saying in a parallel way . . . Hey, I'm noticing you are a beautiful woman. . . one who would probably rather not be here, I bet.

Daniela struggled not to smile as the very image of him actually saying those words entered her mind. Could he really be thinking that?

Mr. Sorrel went on, looking then more democratically at the others. "Well, come on, everyone, am I wrong?" He interjected a short, well-timed pause. "Well, I don't know about you people, but this website just leaves me cold. There's nothing here to hold me! Nothing here to get passionate about!"

He flashed another computer image on the whiteboard. This time it was a website for a furniture company. It was an advertisement for a client Wexler had developed the photos and graphics for only weeks earlier. Daniela stopped breathing. She was now surprisingly looking at her own work up on the screen. She held her breath. She knew what was coming.

"What about this one? Anyone?"

Mr. Cuomo and Mr. Williamson grew suddenly tense. They were also surprised and apprehensive about what they were about to hear. Daniela felt a bit trapped but suddenly excited and a little challenged by the game at hand.

"Once again," Mr. Sorrel forged ahead, preparing to score his promotional point. "Here we have an ad by a very reputable agency. I'm sure you probably know it by now."

Again the pause. He grinned sympathetically, seeming to understand the group's discomfort. "But, we also have here no movement. No sound. Very little vitality. Certainly nothing to grab us."

Daniela could feel her face begin to flush.

Sorrel flashed his eyes in her direction. "Oh, it's well done, alright. . . in the typical, mechanical sense." He looked at her directly now and smiled. It was as if he seemed to be signaling an immanent relief of her further anxiety: Don't worry beautiful one, this will be over soon, Daniela again imagined his thinking.

"But still, folks, there's nothing here to jump onto the screen and wake you up. Nothing to make you gasp . . . or to make you want to read the text. My friends, this is just not . . . SEXY!"

The word stunned Daniela by its bluntness, causing her to blink. Yet, as she thought about it, it was the word which best said it. It was truly what the ad lacked. The whole website definitely lacked punch. A dynamic element. "Sexy" was the right word. And what it lacked.

Mr. Sorrel flashed upon the screen another visual. It was the more vertical dimensions of a smart phone screen.

"Now statistically this is where we are folks. Like it or not. Consumers are chatting, gaming, and yes . . . shopping more on here than their laptops or desktops at home. We want you to be right on the curve on this, along with a lot of people. Now I want to show you something you could be using at your firm to bringing in a more robust interaction with potential clients.

Daniela was temporarily distracted. It had dawned on her that what Mr. Sorrel was alluding to, also applied to her life. "Sexy" was actually one of the ways she had wanted to feel lately, in spite of her prosaic work, which obviously needed this reevaluation. The impulse to analyze this further had entered her mind irreversibly and she found it difficult to concentrate on the presentation Mr. Sorrel was now heavily into.

As he began to explain how the high definition streaming adds would be intrusive and able to run parallel to the consumers' apps on their handsets, she stayed with the notion of how she might make herself and lifestyle more exciting. In addition to the suggestion to make all her future ads more evocative, she saw in this moment the opportunity to change much about the way she had seen herself over the years.

Yes, she thought . . . sexy! She wanted to make herself more alluring as well her work more evocative. The meeting had the hidden agenda of making her want to move out into a larger world with fewer limits on how bold or outrageous anyone or anything could be. A barely perceptible smile rebounded from her face right back to Mr. Sorrel.

"Now let's see what we can do," he said, as he tapped a key on the computer. The ad page for the travel agency came back up onto the small screen. This time a thin banner floated magically over the top of the picture. It was a video clip of a group river-rafting down a stretch of turbid rapids near the Grand Canyon. The sound of the enthusiasts' screams and laughter was crisp and real. The sound of the river was refreshing. The light sparkled on the water and glistened off the tourists' red and white safety helmets. There was inherent in the clip, the excitement of not knowing if the passengers in the raft would stay glued in it as they glided, then cascaded, over the next impending cataract. This anticipation kept everyone's eyes in the boardroom focused on the screen. Suddenly, flashing behind the clip as a continuation of the colorful ribbon of ad was the name of the travel agency blinking with an accessible web-link for booking such tours.

The employees at Wexler were obviously impressed while Mr. Sorrel pushed another key on his laptop, activating a different high definition video clip onto a larger screen, comparable to a desktop monitor or tablet. It drifted over the full length of the screen, seeming to float. It showed tourists venturing out onto the glass walkway which fully extended over the edge of the Grand Canyon's abyss. The people were breathlessly exposed yet magically held up over the one mile drop to the canyon floor. They all waved at a sleek, hi-speed helicopter which cruised over head, the engine of its rotors whistling a high pitched sound. The ad seemed to be offering yet another available thrill on this touristic site to locations of adventure in Arizona. A musical theme segued in at the end of the floating clip while the travel group, as if on cue all signaled a 'thumbs-up' to the viewer, as if saying: We're having the time of our lives. Don't you want that too?

Suddenly a repetition of the travel agency's name materialized and then faded out on the page, leaving the viewer to wonder when the next breath-taking clip would appear unexpectedly on the site and what its next venue would be. The screen remained black. Mr. Sorrel was now looking directly into Daniela's excited eyes and she continued smiling back at him, now more obviously animated and ready to be communicative. Her physical response to the handsome young man was genuine and passionate—erupting undetectably to those others present for no particular reasons associated with advertising. There were other currents of response and a need for transformation surging in her.

* * *