Sexual confidence emanates with every click of a woman's high heel. Click, clack, click, clack. Heaven forbid she runs, delicately pounding out a Morse code mating call.
My own high-heel boots are clicking almost inaudibly over the music in my headphones as I walk down York Street in Ottawa. I'm walking an all-too-familiar stretch, Eastbound from The Dominion Tavern. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought I was walking to my ex-boyfriend's apartment. For a moment, I forgot that his place was not my destination. In that moment, something shiny caught my eye.
A dime.
What a beautiful piece of Canadiana.
Dimes haven't always been significant to me, but for the past few years they have meant more than a stack of hundred dollar bills ever could. At this particular point in time, all you need to know is that, to me, finding a dime is a sign. It's rarely a warning, but a reminder that someone is watching over me. I tend to find them when I am uncertain about something. A job, a lover, a purchase, decisions big and small - the dimes guide me.
The dime on York Street, a rare occurrence thanks to the resident crackheads and panhandlers in that area, is an unignorable sign.
I pick up my shiny treasure and cut through a parking lot towards Rideau Street. I have no more business on York Street tonight.
Later in the evening, right before boarding a Greyhound back to Montreal, I drop some currency from my pocket. Of all the change that's been burning a hole in my coat for days - only two dimes fall to the ground.
Surely I'm making the right decision.
My high heeled boots are sitting by the door. I will put the on again tomorrow. I'm sure they'll be clicking a more confident tune than they have been for quite a while.
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