"She fell into a long series of sobs. He'd once read something that came back to him now. There was a pheromone on women's tears, a chemical signal held over from some cave of prehistory, meant to be a subtle tug on the men it touched. It would be on her face and on her phone, would get onto her fingers when she wiped her cheeks, so that everything and everyone in contact with her would be brushed with the invisible hue of her loneliness. It would disperse like that, one hand to another, through the city. A single drop of ink spreading in clear water until the glass goes dark."
The Poison Artist, by Jonathan Moore (copyright 2016; quote is from page 104 of the Mariner Books trade paperback, 2016).