Rebecca Fletcher

Boss Burrito, Naked Like My Yearning

I wish I could put my arms around your neck, like those aprons you’re so fond of, snug around the back of you, close but not suffocating. I always stand too close, people tell me, but for you I’ll keep my distance, try to make sure you’re comfortable.

I really like spending time with you.

And I know it’s not like the other people, the being too close. We’re not even in the same town. That’s why I follow you online instead, why I know this week you’re celebrating. I sit staring at the photographs, complete with foil taco-shaped balloons declaring ‘Taco bout a party’. I try and peer around them to see what else I could know about you, see who you’re with, to no avail. 

Is there anything sadder than watching a party you weren’t invited to, hoping someone is going to tap you on the shoulder and say ‘Why aren’t you here yet?’ Then I could laugh and put some shoes on and go be part of the fun. The closest I can get to you now is zooming in, but that’s just letting me get closer to the things I can’t reach.

Like you, my precious Taco Bell.

I go to your website and browse out the menu. I don’t like doing it, it makes what we have feel so transactional. I’m greeted with the Naked Chicken Taco, the kind of abomination I want to get my hands dirty with. I wonder if it’s actually crunchy, or if it’s that soft crumbed chicken that melts in your mouth instead. I study the pictures carefully, wondering what I would order if I could go. Right now the Boss Burrito looks amazing, but I know I have days where the Crunchwrap Supreme would be the answer to my problems.

I find videos on YouTube. I see the worker who licked a stacked pile of taco shells and got caught on camera, and I get it. Imagine soft tongues on rough shells, the heady scent of Taco Bell taco shells right up against your nose, mixed with heat and the scent of saliva, like a passionate, stolen kiss in a supply closet. I briefly watch the video fallout to that incident, news presenters with staid tones, and I’m bored by the bureaucracy. Bored by the drama. Angry at people who went to Taco Bell and complained about things that didn’t happen, instead of savouring the things that did.

I lie in bed at night, thinking about what I would do if I could sneak into the kitchen when no one else was there. I think about burying my hands deep into the guac trays, cold, protein-rich sludge sinking between my fingers and under my nails. I think of leaning on flat palms in the metal bean containers, feeling their fragile little skins give way under my hands, spilling their pulpy innards into a muck that I squash against the bottom of the tray as my hand slides across the yielding metal surface. Floury fingers from tortillas. Stolen moments with crispy grilled cheese that stayed too long on the cooktop, browned crusty forbidden snacks. Even the drinks fridge is alluring, bright lights flickering like batting eyelashes.

Can a kitchen flirt?

I wonder if they’d understand why I did it, why it was better that I go to the kitchen when no one else was there, keep my sins to myself, rather than sneak in while it was open and full of people and let them see what you do to me, and the inverse. Instead, this lustful night-time orgy of touch and smell, even though everything would be tainted by the weird, muted dusty smell of refrigeration, is just one more step into the alienation. I wonder how long I would need to leave things out of the fridge to feel them at room temperature, closer to the heat of a living thing? Would it be the same if I microwaved them? I’m sure they have microwaves in their kitchens, even if they barely use them. I wonder how many Cheesy Swirls I can microwave at once, and what I’ll do with them when they’re all ready, warm enough to eat, but not hot enough to burn me. Or maybe they will be, and that can be the punishment for my transgressions.

Maybe I’ll eat them as I rest on piles of crushed taco shells, crumbled into tiny sharp points for me to kneel on as I eat my stolen bounty. The pain will remind me that what I’m doing is wrong, that in another world I could have been lining up at the front counter, mulling over my order, changing my mind as each person in front of me was served. Maybe the toughest choice would have been deciding when it was worth the extra $2 for guac (of course it is). Instead I’m sitting here, in my mind, bare legs on crushed tacos in the kitchen of an abandoned restaurant, hands full of bread wrapped in cheese, juices running down my hands. 

Until then, it’s just a screen between us as I move my finger across my phone, stroking you away and back to me, pinching you to bring you closer.