Despite the frigid cold, the line stretches out the door and spills into the parking lot where people wait for hours in the hopes of securing an appointment. The perennially unemployed flock to her doorstep, inspired in part by the rumor of Henny the Hairless landing a job at the Quik Mart after submitting her handiwork. She excels at writing effective complaint letters. They’re pointed, without giving offense and seem to inspire disaffected administrators to action. Witness the street lamps that now illuminate the former creepy, predatory intersection of Johnson Avenue and West.

Ever since the quest for “likes” have come to dominate the landscape, her workload has nearly tripled. Though she has no time to track statistics, she’s told that the posts she drafts on behalf of clients are invariably retweeted. She writes on demand so that her clients leave happy with assignment in hand. For her, this means no homework. No looming deadlines. At night she’s free to hang out at her favorite joint imbibing scotch and live music.

But last night her tidy world tilted on its axis. She overheard an argument between former lovers. How could she not? It was clear that there was still love there, not in the harsh words they exchanged, but in the weighted silences that bloomed between verbal jabs. She was sure that one thoughtful communication could fix all that. A letter perhaps, sent in the mail. Maybe two, so that both sides could speak from their heart. She offered them her services for free knowing full well that her other clients would suffer. She was certain that if given a chance, she’d be able to knock a love letter out of the park. She could imagine her words inspiring deep emotions. Hearts would open. Long held enemyships would dissolve. She’s read somewhere that love letters require an unusual degree of delicacy and care, a skill not commonly called for in, say, a resume or a letter of complaint. Now all she needs is for the quarreling lovers to like each other sufficiently to come to her office, because home visits are verboten, out of bounds and the hallmark of amateurs.