The Bitter Press

I had hoped never to write this name again. I had filed my post-mortem. I had washed my hands. I had moved on to Mango, whose crimes were fresher and, frankly, more structurally interesting. And yet here we are, because Peach — that blushing, downy catastrophe in residence at the rival rag — has not changed. Has not reflected. Has not, as far as anyone can determine, read the column.

Let us revisit the branding, since Peach has seen fit to continue wearing it. The gradient. That gradient. Soft amber bleeding into rose bleeding into a kind of optimistic beige that has no business existing outside of a greeting card designed to comfort the recently disappointed. It is not a palette. It is a feeling — specifically, the feeling of being told everything will be fine by someone who does not know that it will not.

The fuzz, as I have noted in a previous landmark edition, is not an accessory. It is not texture deployed with intention. It is simply there, uncommitted, doing nothing, contributing an air of almost to a fruit that should have committed to something years ago. Almost soft. Almost structured. Almost interesting. The branding says: I arrived, and I would like credit for that.

My colleague Pomelo suggested, over what passes for a editorial meeting at The Bitter Press, that Peach deserves some sympathy. Pomelo is wrong. Sympathy is for fruits who have tried and fallen short. Peach has not tried. Peach has simply persisted, warm and approximate and faintly fragrant, and called it a brand. It is not a brand. It is an atmosphere. And atmospheres do not dress well. I have checked. They never do.