Steve stood before his cologne cabinet like a general surveying fallen comrades—thirty-seven bottles, each with a story, none with a clear alibi. The vetiver reminded him of that ill-fated camping trip where a raccoon stole his pants. The citrus blend brought back memories of a Vegas bachelor party that ended with a black eye and an unpaid bar tab in three currencies. And the oud—God, the oud—smelled like horny mahogany and regret. His wife called from downstairs, asking if he was “still bott...