It flares quickly; a gift or curse? She fires off words. Bang, bang, bang. He fires them back, but she has had more experience. He misses his mark again and again. Her words are as precise as a sharpshooter's. His are as clumsy as a child with his first water pistol, the cheap plastic kind that leak water down your arm. His are names, usually, and crude-bitch and slut. These mean nothing. Her words dig deeper, to his core, leaving his nearly paralyzed. His mouth falls open, his fists ball. She smiles. Bullseye.