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Another inkblot
"Lovebirds!"
The scratching ink pen stilled for almost the first time since Baileigh had sat down; her therapist slanted her a mildly surprised look over his glasses. "Lovebirds."
"Uh-huh!" She looked up from the card and smiled brightly, fingertips toying with the corners. "Just starting to take flight together. Man, this is the pretty inkblot, where was this one last week when you handed me the freaky Hannibal Lecter mask?"
Her smiled faded quickly when she spied the interested, searching look the therapist was giving her. "Oh crap. That was the wrong answer, wasn't it?"
He flashed her a small, patient smile. "There is no wrong answer, Baileigh. It's an inkblot."
"Yeah, but you're giving me that look that always precedes questions I don't want to answer," she pointed out with a slight pout, setting the card aside.
"I find myself wondering, on occasion, precisely what you previously believed therapy entailed."
She laughed, surprised into it. "Touché."
"Though you're wrong this time. It simply wasn't the response I was expecting."
"Really?" Baileigh tipped her head curiously. "Why?"
"It was honest, and serious, for starters."
She blinked, stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing again. He joined her this time, chuckled softly and briefly before resuming his scribbling. "You're learning, doc," she observed with an approving nod. "You are definitely learning."
