Always go into meetings or negotiations with a positive attitude.

Host: The city lights shimmered across the glass walls of the conference room, throwing long reflections over the mahogany table. The clock ticked with a slow, deliberate beat, like a heart waiting for a decision. Outside, the sky was bruised with the last colors of sunset, and the faint hum of traffic below echoed through the floor.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes fixed on the cityscape, a half-drunk cup of coffee beside him. His tie was loose, his fingers tapping against the table, every movement controlled, deliberate.

Jeeny stood by the whiteboard, her notebook open, pen poised, her dark hair catching the soft glow of the overhead light. She looked calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet, radiant energy — the kind that could make even cynicism hesitate.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. It was that kind of silence — the one before an argument or a confession.

Host: Then, Jeeny turned, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Natalie Massenet once said — ‘Always go into meetings or negotiations with a positive attitude. Tell yourself you’re going to make this the best deal for all parties.’”
She smiled faintly. “I believe that’s how all human interactions should begin — not with suspicion, but with hope.”

Jack: “Hope?” He smirked, leaning back. “That’s a dangerous starting point for business, Jeeny. You don’t walk into a negotiation with hope. You walk in with strategy.”

Jeeny: “Strategy and hope aren’t opposites, Jack. You can plan your steps, but still carry goodwill. The moment you assume the worst of the other person, you’re already building a wall before you even talk.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the faint shadow of a frown forming. His voice was low, rough like gravel over calm water.

Jack: “Walls protect you. They keep you from being taken apart by the idealism of others. Positive attitude? That’s what people say before they’re outmaneuvered. Look at history — the ones who trusted too easily always fell.”

Jeeny: “And the ones who never trusted at all ended up alone,” she replied quickly, her eyes locked on him. “Take the Marshall Plan, Jack — after World War II, the U.S. could have walked away. They could have acted out of self-interest. But they didn’t. They believed rebuilding Europe was good for everyone. That was a deal made with hope — and it changed the world.”

Host: The air thickened between them. The faint flicker of the city lights pulsed against the window, illuminating their faces — her eyes alive, his cold but focused.

Jack: “That’s politics, Jeeny. Calculated goodwill. It wasn’t hope, it was leverage. The stronger always finds a way to disguise strategy as altruism. The Marshall Plan wasn’t an act of love — it was an act of survival.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t survival itself built on cooperation? Even animals know that. Even companies do. You can’t call every kind gesture a strategy, Jack. Some people — some nations — act because they see something bigger than profit.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was short, sharp, and tired.

Jack: “You’ve never been burned, have you? Never watched someone smile while planning to gut your proposal behind your back. I’ve seen ‘positive attitudes’ weaponized, Jeeny. They’re like perfume — cover the rot long enough, and everyone forgets it’s still decay underneath.”

Jeeny: “You talk as if positivity is blindness.”

Jack: “It is. Optimism dulls your instinct. A good negotiator expects betrayal and prepares for it. That’s not cynicism — that’s survival.”

Host: A gust of wind outside rattled the window, and for a moment, the room’s light flickered — the kind of flicker that changes the mood of everything. Jeeny took a step closer, her voice now a whisper edged with fury.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s killing the world, Jack? Not betrayal — it’s mistrust. It’s people walking into rooms expecting to be lied to. It’s men like you, who call kindness weakness and cooperation a trap. When did the heart become a liability?”

Jack: “When it started losing people money,” he said quietly.

Host: Silence again. The clock ticked. A small crack of tension ran through the air, as though the room itself was listening.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’ve forgotten something. Every great negotiation in history — from peace treaties to business mergers — began with one person who believed it could work. Nelson Mandela spent twenty-seven years in prison and still negotiated with his captors. He walked in with faith, Jack. Faith in something better. If he could do that, how can you tell me positivity is naive?”

Jack: “Mandela wasn’t negotiating with smiles. He was negotiating from power — moral power. But that’s rare, Jeeny. You can’t build your life expecting everyone to have Mandela’s integrity.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world is starving because too many people expect the worst.”

Host: Jack leaned forward now, his hands clasped, his eyes sharper. The city glow outlined his profile like a line drawn by regret.

Jack: “And maybe the world survives because some of us do. You need the realists to keep the dreamers from destroying themselves. Someone has to say no. Someone has to read the fine print while you’re busy believing in humanity.”

Jeeny: “And someone has to remind you that humanity isn’t a liability on a balance sheet.”

Host: The tension hit its peak. Both voices had risen, then cracked under their own emotion. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in on the rhythm of their breathing.

Jeeny: “Jack… when you walk into a meeting, what do you see? An enemy?”

Jack: “I see risk.”

Jeeny: “I see potential.”

Jack: “Potential for loss.”

Jeeny: “Potential for change.”

Host: Their words overlapped like two waves colliding. Then — stillness.

Jack looked down, sighing, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. His voice softened.

Jack: “Maybe… I used to believe what you’re saying. Maybe I used to walk into rooms thinking everyone wanted the best for everyone. But then I watched my first startup collapse because my partner — my friend — took every idea we built and sold it to our competitor. That’s when I learned — trust is currency, and it devalues fast.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you can’t let one betrayal define the nature of every deal. That’s like refusing to love again because your heart was broken once.”

Host: The city’s noise seeped in through the glass, a faint murmur of life below — indifferent yet strangely comforting.

Jack: “You think positivity can heal the world, Jeeny. But what if it just blinds you to the fact that not everyone deserves it?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about who deserves it. It’s about who needs it. The point of a positive attitude isn’t to be foolish — it’s to invite something better into the room. If you walk in guarded, the other person mirrors that. But if you walk in with openness, you give them permission to do the same.”

Jack: “That’s a gamble.”

Jeeny: “So is every relationship, every project, every negotiation. You can’t win without risking your heart.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to meet hers. The tension had melted into something gentler — a quiet understanding forged through exhaustion and truth.

Jack: “So… positivity isn’t blindness. It’s… courage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not ignoring reality — it’s choosing which reality you want to build.”

Host: A faint smile broke across Jack’s face, the kind that carried both resignation and hope.

Jack: “Then maybe next time, I’ll try it your way. Walk into a room and assume they’re not out to kill me.”

Jeeny: “And I’ll remember to keep a little of your caution. Even light needs shadows to define it.”

Host: The clock struck eight. The city outside pulsed with new energy — neon and rain blending into the shimmer of possibility.

Jack reached for his coat, and Jeeny gathered her papers. For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside their window — the cars, the voices, the endless motion — seemed to echo what they’d just discovered: that optimism and realism weren’t opposites, but partners dancing on the same fragile wire.

Host: As they stepped out into the night, the rain began — light, cold, cleansing. Jack glanced upward, his lips curved faintly. Jeeny’s hand brushed his arm as they crossed the street.

Two souls — one grounded, one reaching — walking into the unknown with a single, quiet truth between them:

That every negotiation, every meeting, every encounter, is not a battle to be won — but a bridge to be built.

Host: And under the trembling lights of the city, that truth — like rain — fell softly on them both.