Tangelo and Lemon Have Not Carpooled to Council in a Full Fortnight and I, a Tomato, Have the Receipts
I will be brief, as befits a tomato of my standing: Tangelo and Lemon are not speaking. Not a syllable. Not a nod. Not so much as a shared glance at the beverage station, where Lemon — I am told, by sources, by my own tomato eyes — poured herself an entire glass of water without once acknowledging Tangelo, who was standing directly adjacent to the pitcher. Adjacent. I documented it. I have photographs. The photographs are of me, mostly, but the background is damning.
They arrived fourteen minutes apart on Tuesday. Fourteen. I stood in the car park in the light drizzle and I counted, because that is what a tomato does. A serious tomato. A red, round, savoury tomato, which I am. The interval was not accidental. You do not arrive fourteen minutes apart by accident. You arrive fourteen minutes apart because something happened at the zesting seminar and nobody is talking about it except me, and I am talking about it extensively.
My colleague Quince has suggested I am reading too much into a car park. Quince does not attend the car park. I do. A tomato attends the car park.
Sources close to the citrus cabal — specifically, a draught that blew past me near the side entrance — suggest the rift involves a remark Lemon made about presentation at last month's so-called editorial council. Tangelo, for her part, wore a very deliberate outfit to this week's session that I can only describe as a statement. I will not elaborate on the outfit at this time as I am saving it for a separate piece which I have already titled and legally cannot discuss.
The rival rag continues to publish as though none of this is happening. It is happening. I, a tomato, am on the record.