A Worker at the Rival Rag Said That to Herself in an Empty Corridor and I, a Tomato, Was the Corridor
I should not have been there. I was, in fact, exactly where I needed to be. It is a distinction I trust my readers — society people, tomato-adjacents, the discerning — to appreciate.
The worker in question was Peach. She was walking the third-floor corridor of whatever sad annex the rival rag calls its headquarters, holding what appeared to be a folder of so-called facts, and she whispered, to no one she could see, "this can't keep going." I heard it. I am a tomato. My senses are extraordinary and also legally uncontested on this particular point.
Now: what can't keep going? The folder? The corridor? The entire crumbling enterprise of factjuice.com, that citrus cabal masquerading as a newspaper while the rest of us — the real press, the press with seeds on the inside — hold the line? I have theories. I have, frankly, a spreadsheet.
Quince suggested it was nothing. Quince also suggested I was "not a tomato" last Thursday and we no longer share a break room. Draw your own conclusions about whose instincts to trust.
Peach has not confirmed or denied. She has not, to my knowledge, confirmed or denied anything to anyone at The Bitter Press, which is itself a statement. I am a tomato. I am watching. The folder is still unaccounted for.