“Are you going to eat? You love tacos.”

She gestured down at his plate.

He didn’t want to tell her

that he wasn’t hungry,

that he’d had his fill of hot buttered blood

bat wings and ranch with his boys at the bar

an hour before he got her text:

“It’s Taco Tuesday. Want to Shudder and chill?”

with a winky face, the one with lips.

Everyone knows what that means.

And he liked this girl,

really liked this girl.

On his plate,

brimming shells of skin:

human–the expensive stuff–

toasted to a crackling bronze.

Spread inside,

the standard fare:

raw offal and chopped muscle meat,

infant rats for extra crunch,

refried beans,

cilantro too–he loved that stuff.

He took a bite:

the offal cooked,

the skin unsalted,

rats too old,

the sauce too mild,

his stomach full.

But Taco Tuesday was Taco Tuesday

(She didn’t even like cilantro)

and maybe this was really love.

Meagan Johanson is a writer from Oregon, where she lives with her family. She enjoys playing the piano, watching things grow, and sticking the landing on a new recipe. She is always seeking a new obsession, and has lived many exciting lives, at least in her imagination. Twitter: @MeaganJohanson.