Tantric Coconuts by Greg Kincaid

impressed.” He knew enough about welding to know that it was a lot harder than it looked. “I’m thinking you should add ‘field welder’ to your spiritual consultant sign.”
    Angel’s neck was tired, so she inched over closer to Tedand rested her head against him. She stared at the welds as if they were Rembrandts. “I do damn fine work, don’t I? My father lets me create art by welding old auto parts together. That’s how I got interested in welded sculpture.”
    “You have lots of talents.”
    “Most pay poorly or not at all.”
    Angel scooted out from under the chassis and brushed the dust and small pieces of gravel from her shorts. When Ted also emerged, she gave him a casual hug and said, “You’re roadworthy. Good luck.”
    Ted, very grateful to have met Angel and feeling a little guilty for thinking that she was trying to con him, smiled. “It was really nice crashing into you.”
    “Come on, No Barks.” Without another word, Angel Two Sparrow walked away.
    Ted wondered why there weren’t women like Angel in Crossing Trails. She was interesting. He sat down at the picnic table with Argo and waited until he heard Bertha’s engine start and the gravel crunch as Angel pulled out onto the highway and headed west. He imagined her driving with her drum music blaring. He had the urge to yell out and tell her to wait. Maybe he’d made a mistake. A pilgrimage wasn’t such a bad idea, but he also suspected that on some level it was an awful idea. Angel was just a pretty palm reader, a traveling tarot card reader. Not for him. He’d made the right decision. Stick to what was safe. However great Angel might be, she was on a very different path. Ted closed his eyes and suddenly recalled the second part of the strange dreaming episode.
    The four of them—Angel, Ted, and the two dogs—were around a campfire in the woods, by a gurgling creek surrounded by mountains that were small by the standards of the Rockies. Still, the geological formations were primitive and beautiful—different from anything he had ever seen. Vivid red embers floated up into the sky like parachutes in reverse and dissipated into the black nothingness of the night. The moon was nearly full. They were dancing in the dark. Moon dancing.
    Ted smiled to himself. Dogs don’t tango on their two hind legs, and neither did Ted Day. It was a crazy dream. What did it mean? Tangoing with Angel and their dogs under the full moon in a strange forest was definitely not a
normal
dream for Ted Day. He wanted only normal dreams. Ted resolved that this one meant nothing. That’s what it meant. Since when did dreams communicate to Ted or anyone else? Believing in dream communication was dangerous. It had landed Aunt Lilly in jail. He wondered if spiritual consultants knew anything about dreams.
    Ted shook the dream off like water from a dog’s back. He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. There were none. He saw Angel’s text from the night before, and for some reason he found himself missing her. Willing to bet that Angel would know about dreams, and with every shred of self-confidence he could muster, he decided to call her, thank her again for welding his tank, and ask about the dream.
    He waited for her to answer. On the third ring, she did.
    “Hey?”
    “Angel, Ted Day. I wanted to thank you again for welding the tank. You did a great job. Also, I wanted to say … I enjoyed our little time together.” Ted paused, wondering if he sounded professional, and then asked, “By the way, what do you know about dreams?”
    “I’m a Lakota. Dreams are very important for us. I know a lot. Just ask me,” Angel responded, turning down her drum music.
    “While I was on the floor of your bookmobile, I had two very strange dreams. They were dreams like I never had before.”
    “This does not surprise me. Bertha is a dream catcher. Significant dreaming events occur under her roof. Also, powerful dreamers—like myself and Aunt Lilly—can