In my mid-twenties—quite a while ago!—I had a boyfriend from Haiti. His skin was caramel colored, and he had a beautiful baritone voice.

Serge could lie about anything, and people believed him. He’d lie about the other women he was sleeping with; he’d lie about his two schizophrenic brothers—a couple of unmedicated messes, though Serge claimed they were merely eccentric. He’d lie about his politics, how much money he made, the weather forecast: you name it. And everybody would be taken in!

I didn’t mind the whoppers about the brothers, or even the other women; it wasn’t as if I were planning on marrying him. The thing that bothered me was Serge’s story of his happy boyhood. From what I’d heard on the news, Haiti wasn’t a place a kid could enjoy—all that terrible poverty and violence… I kept telling him he had to be soft-pedaling, and he kept claiming I wouldn’t know happiness if I tripped over it.

Eventually, our arguments took their toll, and we split up. Serge moved back to his homeland, and we fell out of touch. About five years ago, he called me on the first of May, which happens to be my birthday—that’s how I got my name. You remembered! I said, and he came right back with no man could forget you, and we both laughed because he was still such a good liar. That voice of his made me want to hop on the next plane to Haiti.

But after we got off the phone, I stopped laughing. I pictured Serge driving out of the capital and into the hills, to the village where he was born. I imagined men in mirrored sunglasses staking out his front door. And I remembered how he used to take my breasts in his hands and put his face between them, like he was shutting out the world. Whispering in French, in that beautiful baritone. Whispering to my ribcage.

Rescue me! That’s what Serge was saying. He honestly thought if I fucked him senseless, he’d be saved. Getting a liar to drop his beliefs is like trying to talk a jumper off a bridge! Still, I felt I’d failed him. And who could I blame but myself—for wanting to be saved, too?

June cracked her gum when May finished speaking. I waited for someone to ask my question, and after a moment, April did, in her own words:

Have you tripped over it yet?

Tripped…?

Happiness.

Pfff, said May, and April gave one of her indolent smiles.