Nigel usually didn't receive any mail. Which was a relief for him as he disliked mailman in their hideous outfits. How someone could walk in such a light shade of blue that undermined any feeling of authority was a mystery to him. He wasn't opposed to the fleeting fantasy of having sex with men in uniform, however postal uniforms would only drop his arousal to minus three. Next to that Nigel was very private, and only few people were aware of his address. So when luck would have it that he opened his mailbox he was surprised to see an envelope waiting for him. Deciding he would read it before going to work he opened it and was surprised to see Six's handwriting.
Dear Nigel,
By the time you read this I shall most likely be dead. And as cliché as you are (don't you deny it) I thought you'd appreciate a last letter in which I write you about our dearest moments together, such as me whining about problems that are not yours, or the time that you got so drunk you threw up in the bushes near the Sacher hotel (don't deny that too, I have to admit that I still have the picture even though you threaten to let Patricia poop in my first self-payed-for Jimmy Choo's if I didn't delete it).
But that is not why I write you, Nigel. As I am sure that you know how much I love you and I trust you to trust on that knowledge. I am here to give you a last reprimand. A last chance of saying what the heart feels, as my heart won't be feeling anymore any time soon.
You're amazing Nigel. In everything you do, in every lay-out that you polish, in every shoot that you solely build, and we all know that Miranda has been giving you that power and responsibility to do so since Paris. With every time you act or talk, you are giving more than 200 percent. But you are wrong, Nigel. You told me once, that when I had no social life anymore, that it would be time for a promotion. And you have lived by that rule yourself. But it is an erroneous rule, and I wish you would deem yourself good enough to see that. You deserve love Nigel. And I know, I am more than convinced, that if you would start to look around, start to give just a little bit of that 200 percent that you have in you that many men will be waiting in line. Pick one, fall for one (or many, I don't mind), open up to someone. It is so precious to be able to rely on someone, to have someone that –even if they have no clue about fashion ;)- is willing and able to listen to you when you have a bad day. To kiss you before going to work or seduce you with kinky leather.
I know, you have plenty of sex (don't make me write down that memory please), enough young models around with just the right image. But remember Nigel, an image doesn't appear near your bedside with soup when you're sick. It takes two to spoon in a bed.
It is my last request to you, and as I am dying I think you should give in (see, I am that desperate to see you happy that I'll go over my dead body to convince you. Don't make me haunt you, as I look forward to utter freedom and laziness in my afterlife). You've been a true and dear friend to me, thank you.
Love, always,
Andrea
Nigel had to pretend to clear his glasses three times so that he could cry during rubbing the frame with his handkerchief. Six had called him yesterday to update him on her status, and had told the story of the doctors thinking that she had been dying as if it was a hilarious joke. Apparently she had conveniently left out that she had been under the same impression as the doctors. He didn't know whether he was hurt that she had not told him she had been in such a bad state, because he immediately understood she had done so out of concern for him. Still, he felt a heavy sadness understanding that he had been so, so very close to losing his friend. Folding the letter into his inner pocket of his jacket he realized he had a lot of thinking to do.