Her Sapphic Subconscious

Penny Barber, therapist for the afternoon, watches Kenzie Taylor swipe two more of her oversized Rorschach cards across the low table. Ink splotches bleed together. Kenzie leans in. "They look like two chicks in a café," she says. Penny flips another. "Girls? Kissing this time," Kenzie blurts. A smirk tugs Penny’s lip, but the card stays mute in her hands, symmetrical and blank. Kenzie frowns. "Why the hell do I keep seeing women? Is this some trick?" Penny’s voice stays steady. "It’s only random ink. The mind arranges whatever it wants." She leans back on the couch, legs crossed, skirt a touch shorter than standard professionalism. "I’m seeing what you’re seeing. And it’s telling you something." Conversation slides deeper, circling sex, want, what Kenzie’s tucked away. Penny cuts in with a shoulder shrug. "I’m a dyke. Every day." Door closed, lamp dim, her words thud inside Kenzie like a dare. Kenzie stares, face hot. She needs solid proof the heat racing up her thighs is real, not therapy talk. A kiss might answer it. "Can I kiss you?" she asks, blunt, heat pooling low, and waits for Penny to close the last five feet between them.