Donald does not like meatloaf. He recalls the bland flavor that polluted his palate the night before as he plops a brown, overcooked bit into a container for lunch. The ketchup bottle splats his yellow shirt as he tries to coat the charcoaled chunk. It’s his fault, really, that he’ll be eating it. He always tells his wife it’s delicious, and she always makes him extra. He can hear her breathing in the bedroom as he thinks to himself how tired he is. Of meatloaf. Of meetings. Of marriage.