A/N: Another Annie and Britta vingette. They belong to NBC and I claim no ownership of Anna Karenina which belongs to the amazing Tolstoy. I just seem to love these two women and literature...

Annie/Britta


"The dinner was served on glass tables- yes, and the tables sang "Il mio tesoro"…no, not exactly "Il mio Tesoro," but something better than that; and then there were some kind of little decanters that were really women."

Your voice fills the apartment. The high ceilings which, back in the day accommodated mountains of smoke and Pixie records, are now being as enchanted as I am by your voice. You had said I needed to read Tolstoy, that it was some requirement of being in a relationship with you. I had scoffed at first, but then realised how serious you were when a dog eared copy with your name in the front started showing up on my bedside table, on the kitchen counter, in the bathroom. I had been on the balcony when you finally cornered me, eyes serious and book in hand.

Now, the floor lamp is on and my head is in your lap and your voice is making Tolstoy seem interesting. You describe the dream of this unknown man and the lounge room disperses around me. Instead of the raw stone wall I see fine wallpaper, instead of the floor boards and "natural" material rug, lush carpets are under my feet, a chandelier above my head. The music playing in the background is carrying me now, and I'm dancing with you, waltzing or some old fashioned dance. Your leading me, which is good, because I can only imagine myself falling over without you and your hand is warm between my shoulder blades.

The words you are reading are blurry even when I try to focus. All I can feel is the wind sailing past my ears s we twirl, all I can her is your muffled giggle as I stumble yet again, all I can see is you in your cupcake pyjamas, completely at odds but also fitting perfectly with the old fashioned beautiful scenery around us. I think you can see my distraction because the book has been set down and you've shuffled so your head is closer to mine.

"What are you thinking about now?" you ask me, half annoyed and half amused. I want to tell you about our beautiful ballroom, the way you look so beautiful and elegant when you dance and the way your hold on me feels so secure, I promise I do. All I know is that those images are fading and I can't quite hang on to them, like a dream on waking. Instead I smile at you, run a finger down the bridge of your nose. Your face screws up in an adorable smile and I think my face must mirror that because I feel so happy and at peace in this moment.

"You're so beautiful," I finally say, watching the pink flush blossom on your cheeks. I don't say it enough, years of conditioning to be a rough, short spoken person overriding my true belief that you are the most gorgeous thing on the whole planet, with your big dark eyes and shiny hair and soft skin and perfect lips. You drag those lips across my own, gently, so I can barely feel the pressure.

"So are you," you reply. "But we are still going to read this book."