Dear Nicholas Angel,
I love you.
I love everything about you.
From the way you leap over things to the way you do flips over things, I love you.
For your unerring accuracy with an air pistol, I love you.
For the way you carry two spare pens with you, I love you. For the way you ride white horses while loaded down with more artillery than I’ve ever seen in my life, I love you.
I love the way you’re reading and willing to do paperwork on all those people you’ve arrested. I love the way you insist on saying “police officer” instead of “policeman.”
I love the way you say “Yarb” when you’re fooling the bad guys.
I love the way you raise a Japanese peace lily only to use it for bashing in the head of the guy who says “Yarb.”
I love the way you rescue stray swans.
I love the way you say “collision” instead of “accident” because accident implies no one is at fault.
I love the way you wear a vest.
And I know that Danny Butterman is your soul mate, and that’s OK. I want you to know that I don’t mind.
I will totally take sloppy seconds.