CALL HER CATHERINE. WHEN HER HEART truly broke, she was thirty-seven years old, she had two teenaged girls, and her husband loved another woman. She smelled the woman’s love on his clothes; it was a perfume she could name but did not. Even the woman’s name, when she learned it from her husband’s lips, was not large enough, only two words for the breath and flesh and voice and blood of only a woman, only part of what she had traced by smell on his sweater one night, his jacket another, and traced by intuition and memory when he was with her and when he was away at his normal times and when he was away on the evenings and weekend days he lied about; and what she had not traced but simply known long before she smelled another’s love on him. Had simply known, as a person with a disease may know without giving it a name or even notice, long before its actual symptoms and detection.