He had a different idea about what would be perfect for him. "Towing? I'm not working for a towing company." My apartment smelled different when I got home. Not bad, just- like somebody else. Like cheap shaving cream and coins. I hadn't wasted any time telling my dad about the job lead. He was not as excited as I. "I still have some connections. I left some messages today. I'm waiting to hear back from a few people. I don't think I'll have to work at," he glanced at the card, "Carl's Towing." He said the words like it was a job Mike Rowe would feature on his show. And so what if had been? It was a job! I wanted to smack my dad in the forehead with the business card.

"It's perfectly respectable work, dad." I couldn't let this go so easily. "Just swing by and talk to him."

"They wear jumpers, Nora. I just got out of a damn jumper."

I didn't reply, but did my breathing exercise on the perimeter of the business card. Barbara jumped on me. "I'm going to take Barbara for a walk." I spent thirty cold minutes rationalizing for my dad. This was hard for him too. His pride was taking a hit. He was scared. Jumpers really aren't flattering. Around the edges of my justifications though, were jagged perforations like I'd torn part of a paper off. The part that read, "This is exactly what you were scared of. What did he think? He'd jump into a six-figure salary?"

By the time I got back my dad seemed much calmer. Polite, even. "Thanks for bringing that card home. I didn't mean to shoot you down so fast. I just want to see what else might pan out."

"Sure. I get it." My dad smiled at me. I tried to remember him smiling in my childhood. Surely, he did smile, I just couldn't think of a particular time.

"So what's for dinner?" Why would he assume I was making dinner for him? I was immediately annoyed. Would it always be one step forward, two steps back with him? Barbara lay at my feet, exhausted. I couldn't take her for a walk every time I got irritated. He probably just figures you cook every night. Because you're a cook, I told myself. And lucky for him, I was just stressed out enough to oblige.

"Potato soup?" I suggested, my words tight as a wine cork.

"Mm. With some bacon chunks in it? Yes, please."

I didn't have bacon. "I'll be back," I muttered,putting my shoes back on to trek down to the corner store for some thick cutbacon.