Every Tuesday, someone swears
they’ll be the star of the table:
bold flavours, big stories,
a whole performance promised
before the tortillas are even warm.

They make an entrance in advance,
loud in the group chat,
full of swagger and spice
they never quite bring with them.

But when the night arrives,
there’s always a sudden excuse,
a last‑minute shuffle,
a quiet retreat from the heat
they claimed they could handle.

So the rest of us gather anyway,
passing plates, trading jokes,
letting the evening be what it is;
a small reminder that some people
season their words more than their actions.

And honestly,
the tacos don’t mind.