"Well-" she shrugs, her cup of wine splashing a bit on the ground with the violent jerk of her shoulders- "you're wrong."

There's no point in overdoing it. He's such a weak, fragile target, in her eyes. She's already in control of this conversation, and she barely had to try. It makes the victory-- and it is, to her, a victory-- unsatisfying. She drinks more wine. Maybe if she gets drunker, she'll be happier. That's not usually how it works, but it's a familiar mistake.

She could string this out, she reflects. Maybe that'd make her more satisfied. But what comes out of her mouth is, "the longer you're here, the meaner I'm gonna be. You're an easy target, and I think I'm... drunk."