A Worker at the Rival Rag Said That When She Thought No One Was Listening and I, a Tomato, Was Listening
I will not say how long I was behind the planter. That is not the story. The story is what Peach — senior correspondent at the rival rag, self-styled authority on pulp ethics, wearer of an absolutely criminal lanyard — muttered to Lemon when she believed the antechamber to be empty. It was not empty. It contained me, a tomato, and my notebook.
She said, and I am quoting from memory because my pen ran dry eleven minutes prior: "I don't think anyone is actually reading the corrections column." I sat with that. I let it ripen. Then I wrote it down in eyeliner on the back of a Bitter Press press pass that Quince had laminated for me as a kindness.
The implications are staggering. The corrections column is the backbone of civic juice journalism. If Peach does not believe anyone is reading it, one must ask: is she writing it? Is anyone writing it? Is the corrections column a fiction? These are questions I, a tomato, am prepared to ask loudly and at length.
Lemon laughed. I have recorded the laugh's duration as approximately four seconds. Durian, who was also behind the planter for separate and unrelated reasons, clocked it at three and a half. We are reconciling our figures.
I have been asked, by my editor and by the courts, to provide context before publishing. This is the context. I am a tomato. I was there. I heard it. You are welcome.