After a long twenty year relationship, my neighbor Samarra Harlem broke up with her life-long love. I'm unsure if any of them had been unfaithful, but there he was, on the couch, outside in the middle of February in Pittsburgh. He was too proud to beg, but I could hear him, late into the night, the late night national anthem as the public broadcasts died out followed by the eerie call of his white snow, bleeting like a sheep in the night."Please! he called out, the Fresh Prince of Bel Air is on! Don't you want to see Saved by the Bell?"
Samarra Harlem I could see from the window. That sad look in her eyes, I had seen it before, the look a woman makes when a man she has stopped loving, because he was a mega asshole, writhes on the ground like an even bigger asshole thinking his caterpillar movements will somehow win her back. I saw pity in her silhouette. He never brought himself to go, nobody took him. There he sat. I mean it was kind of Samarra to leave her couch under him. Eventually the rains came to wet him and snow made him chatter, and all at once he was covered in the rubbish of her new paramour. A flat screen HD, plasma with a whopping girth and overall screen size.
Sometimes I can still see him. Under everything, moaning lightly to himself, "Seinfeld!"
I guess he was wrong, not every problem in life can be solved by a Saved by the Bell episode.
