Write

It was the leaded glass crystal, fluted sides, a stem as delicate as a lily. She filled it halfway, she didn't want to be greedy.
"Is that all you're having?" Her mother had just poured her glass up to the rim and was now walking awkwardly across the room, trying not to spill it.
"I like the way it looks in the glass."
Her mother sat down on the couch and slurped. "That's why I like these glasses. They look good no matter what you put in them."
She paused behind the couch, behind her mother, and took a sip. It was disappointing. She would check the label and be sure not to buy this vintage again. The grapes seemed too ripe, the tannins hung in her throat with a scratch. The aftertaste was faintly bitter.
Sort of like the woman sitting on the couch in front of her.