by Steve Tait

I’ve found a vein, she said. A rich seam, she said. I’ll mine this, she said. And she did. Howard Wilkins, graphic designer, husband, dreamer, amateur philosopher. With the right set-up, the payload looks promising, she said.
The marriage was quick; the pay-off was slow. But mining requires investment. Patience, she said. Set things up just so. And she did. The business would be hers, she said. Or in her name at least. Tax reasons, she said. 51%. In compliance with local laws, she said. You understand that, don’t you dear? I do, he said. I’m a foreigner here, a visitor, he said.
I’m here to dream, he said, here to dream life into things, he said. And he did too. Graphic design and dreaming, those were his bailiwicks. He philosophized; she listened. I learn from you, she said. I rebrand, repackage, revitalize, he said. Companies can change through their websites, he said. I re-imagine them. A fresh look is a fresh life, he said. A new image creates something new.
She listened, nodded. I understand, she said. I understand in a way you never could, she thought. Help the company reposition itself in the market, he said. Yes, she replied. But there’s more, so much more, she thought.
She stored his philosophy away. For now I have a seam to mine, she said, a rig to set up. While he dreamed of company renewal, she got her hands dirty. I’ll handle the books, she said. Let you keep your head in the clouds, she said. I’ve got some digging to do, she said.
The pipeline was deep, the flow strong. The diversion was insignificant. I’ll siphon just a little, she thought. A tenth – no more. Far less than a dreamer would care about. She filled her barrels, stored them well. For a seam never lasts forever, she knew. Every vein runs dry, she said.
Dreams are such delicate things, he said. Must nurture them, he said. Allow them time to blossom. Each new rebranding is a small miracle, he knew. A new beginning for a firm. A new body, a new heart. But he knew. Fresh starts cannot be rushed, he said, and she listened, listened as he wandered the garden, picking leaves off acacia trees for clues. Snapping twigs off bougainvillea for inspiration. Smell the jasmine after a sun shower, he said. Let it take you places, he said.
Special things take time to germinate, he said. But eventually these creations will bloom, he said. They will shimmer with new life. But companies are a strange species. So reckless, he said, so relentless in their drive for tomorrow’s renewal today. He shook his head. Demoralized but not defeated, he kicked the buds beneath his feet.
She looked down, but didn’t see the soil. She saw the once rich seam, disappearing deeper and deeper into the earth. A vein headed south, she said. Barely in reach, moving in one direction only, she said. I’m going back to the books, she said. Ten turned to fifteen as black turned to red. I will run it dry, she said. And she did. She sucked the vein to the verge of collapse while his nose was full of the scent of frangipani.
But the plan was well formed by now, she knew. She bided her time. I’m getting old, she said, catching him with the azaleas. But you’re beautiful, he said. No longer, she whispered.
Seeds were thus sown. Now to my appointments, she said. Rebranding is a process, he’d said. Repackaging can’t be rushed, he’d said. She started with the little things. Fold over those eyelids, she demanded. The doctor knew the score. He knew his place. The nose, she said. Build this squalid low rise into something else, something aquiline, something pointing to the stars, she said. And he did too.
The vein narrowed, the seam grew smaller, the rebranding took on a life of its own. Nose led to chin (laser reshaping, better balance, sharper angle), chin led to cheeks (greater prominence, restore lost facial volume). But the face was just the beginning. The breasts took time, as genuine artistry does. Skin rejuvenation took longer still.
It’s the new you, he said. I barely recognize you, he said. She smiled her wry smile. All the better to live the dream, she said. Find us those with the vision, she said, those captains of industry. Firms that appreciate the rhythms of life, she said.
Relieved and appreciative, he studied an orchid, wondering how it came to be, wondering how things change, from the familiar to the unrecognizable. Get back to work, he said to himself. Enough of staring at flowers, he said. Change, he said, mustn’t be afraid of it, mustn’t resist.
It’s time to leave, she thought. And she did too. Your time has passed, she thought; my time has come, she said. Clothes and shoes, eye colour and hair colour, haircut and perm. Botox people do your thing, she said. The seam has run dry, she said. But others are out there, she said, just waiting to be found.
She walked away, repackaged, rebranded. A new image, a new me, she said. A new life with savings, she said. A new life without her (his!) debt. With possibilities. The sort that open up to the newly minted. It’s taken time, she said. I knew it would, she said.
He was a fool, she said. He had seen beauty – only beauty – in new beginnings, she thought. He had been blinded by it, she thought. He hadn’t understood. Makeovers mean letting go, she said, letting go of the old, the rotten. Makeovers take courage, she said. There is no room for remorse. Remake, she said, and the future becomes an escape.
He frowned, he knew. Alone with his crumbling dreams, his wilting poppies, he knew. He felt it. He had felt it for years. He’d fought it, submerged it, buried it. It was never deep enough, he said. It could never be deep enough, he said. How could he possibly keep such secrets from her? he asked. She was bound to uncover them, he said. And then, and then… He knew their powers. Like evergreen ivy it will engulf and conquer.
She smiled at the mirror. Wealth becomes me, she said. In a way debt never would, she said. She was free to drill where she pleased. Who knew what she might find!
But first, but first. Just one more touch-up. The breasts – yes, she thought. Now for the hips, she thought. The hips and the bottom. More shapely, she said. The doctor smiled. Of course, he said. He knew the deal. He knew the score. To go with my breasts, she said. Indeed, he smirked. A big job, he said. For which you shall be rewarded, she said. Of course, he said.
In went the needle, long, glistening. The steady injection of gel, slowly, relentlessly. If only she’d known, known of the vein. He knew. He knew he’d found the vein. Hadn’t meant to. Of course he hadn’t. But things happen. She knew the risk.
Minutes passed. Air! She said. Where is the air? she gasped. He scratched his head, wrung his hands. The vein, he said. So big, he said. I wasn’t expecting…
The vein leads to the artery. The flow leads to the lungs. Oxygen. Can’t breath, she said. The brain, freed from oxygen, its work done, stops.