Taco Tuesday Temptation

By Amber Kirkpatrick

Tacos.

I woke from a delicious dream of seasoned meats and melted cheese. Hazily, I grappled for my phone and tried to focus my still-bleary eyes. Of course I was dreaming of tacos. It’s Taco Tuesday.

Or it should be Taco Tuesday, but for me there would be no carnitas wrapped in soft, warm flour tortillas. Stupid diet.

To be clear, I do not need to be on a diet. But when my wife decided she needed to go on a diet, in a foolish moment of solidarity, I agreed to do it with her. After all, I had seen her other fads come and go—essential oils, protein powders, those weird cleaning rags. I had survived them all. I’d thought this diet, too, would never last.

It’s been two weeks, five days, and sixteen hours now.

Drearily, I prepared myself for a joyless day of work. The day passed in a haze. My history students rambled on about dates and names, and I thought of tacos. Lunchtime came and went, and I wanted tacos. When I left the school, my taste buds yearned for tacos.

Why did every street corner have a taco truck? I turned on the radio, seeking a distraction. Some commercial jingle began, and I tried to relax to the music.

Hot, hot, hot—Hot Joe’s!
Call us to deliver our famous tacos!

Noooooo!

I frantically began pulling forth anything in my mind that might fight away the temptation. History. Yes. I had to plan the next history test for my students.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men deserve tacos—

What? That couldn’t be right.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning for tacos—

Anger swept over me. We had only been married for a few months. If she was beautiful enough for me to marry her, why did she think she needed to diet now? How dare she rope me into her schemes!

And there it was: Jorge’s Tacos.

It was Our Place. Where we always got our tacos, going back to our first date. I wanted to weep. In a taco-induced frenzy, I yanked the wheel of my car over and pulled into the small parking lot.

“Hey, Ben!” Jorge called as I stumbled out of the car and dragged my feet to the food truck’s window. “Long time, no see.”

“Jorge.” Beads of sweat began dripping down my forehead.

“Tacos?”

“I’m, ah, thinking about some.”

“Thought you and the missus were on a diet.”

I nodded. My heart beat fast. I struggled to breathe. Was I suffering from taco deprivation at last? I no longer cared about my wife. I was going to have a taco. Any taco. At this point I was even willing to try the taco-we-dare-not-name, the taco no red-blooded American male would dream of ordering—the dreaded soy meat taco.

I felt around in my pockets. The horror! I had no cash. Credit card, yes, but she would see the bill. I eyeballed Jorge, wondering what the laws were for stealing tacos from food trucks. One year of prison? Worth it. Surely there were tacos in prison, and the wife would never know I’d broken the diet while hidden away in a cell.

“Funny, because she was just here,” Jorge mused.

“Who was here?” I whispered, a feeling of dread sweeping over me.

“Sam.”

“Sam—Samantha? My wife?”

“Yup. Picked up a bag of tacos. Looked really sneaky about it, too.”

My heart broke a little. The woman to whom I’d pledged my life had betrayed me. My wife, who had banished me from my tacos, was even now stuffing her face with them while I went hungry.

“So… do I bag something up for you?”

I swallowed hard at the realization I was about to embark on the same traitorous path as my wife. Don’t do it. Don’t become what you hate! I shuddered in agony at the self-denial, my life passing before my eyes. I wouldn’t do it! I would abstain and be the better person!

“No,” I groaned miserably. “I guess not.”

On the drive home, I mulled over every tale of lost love, of broken promises and unfaithful lovers. I entered our little apartment, stiff and sore. The epic battle of the taco temptation had been won, but at a price. My manhood would never recover. I hoped our marriage would rediscover happiness over time, embittered as I was with denied cravings.

“Sweetheart, is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” I grumbled.

A delicious smell wafted past my nose. What was that? Marinated beef, onions… a hint of cumin…

“You’ve been such a dear about the diet,” Samantha caroled. She came out from the kitchen with a platter in her hands. “So, I picked up some of Jorge’s tacos for dinner, just for you!”

Twenty years later and she still doesn’t understand why a sizzling platter of fajita tacos brings tears to my eyes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amber Kirkpatrick dabbled in writing for years, but the Great Plague gave her the motivation to dust off some old dreams. She gleefully genre-hops from fantasy to sci-fi, from her own brand of oddball humor to the occasional foray into dark poetry. Amber lives in the Texas Hill Country and when not writing, she is busy homeschooling her three wildlings and pretending to do housework.

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