I love the way my husband smells: his skin, his hair, his sweat. The scent is deep and musky; it makes me think of passion and strength, of the hot sun and the broad earth. The first time I was close enough to him to smell him, I was just breathing, my nose close to his skin, and everything stopped. For one breathless moment, I paused. Then I inhaled, deeply and consciously, savoring the scent, wanting to breathe it only. The first time we made love, the scent of him lingered on my hands for days, the smell of the two of us together, his skin on my skin, a stronger perfume than soaps or lotions.

Through the years, since we started living together, since we've been married, our scents have mingled. We sleep in the same bed, on the same sheets. We sit on the same sofa. Our bare feet walk the same floors. Our clothes twist together in the washer. We share the same soap. His scent is everywhere in my life, and mine in his. Smell his skin and smell me sleeping next to him. Smell my clothes and smell him embracing me.

When Mark would come home to me after being with someone else, he says I would always remark on the smell: that he smelled of cigarettes or soap or just something strange. And he would give me a reason for that strange smell and I'd forget about it. But I'd noticed a difference, if only for a moment; I smelled something foreign, something that wasn't supposed to be there, something that wasn't him, wasn't us. It would be there, temporarily, then wash off and be gone, forgotten.

What did She smell, whoever She was and whichever of the shes She was? Nothing strange, nothing unusual. My scent is his scent now, and his is mine. She never knew him without me; even away from me, we were always together, and that comforts me.