They'd glued her lips together, or used one of those hidden stitches for darning holes in socks, either way, she'd had a lovely overbite in life, huge white teeth that sprang out of her mouth when she laughed, and they ruined it. "I'll fix it," he leaned in and whispered in her ear, an impression of the tip of his nose in the bright funeral spackle covering her cheek.
"Kiss," he said, and then tried separating her lips with his tongue. He could feel the hard stitches keeping him from her teeth, the sound of her laughter. He slipped his hand in his pants pocket, shifting the change for his pen knife. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt the air in the room change, conversations trailed off, a couple exclamations sounding like, Touffta! Hussah! But no one moved, no one tried stopping him. He opened his knife. "It's okay, Eugenia," he said. "It's okay, my love." He poked the tip of the blade between her lips, sliced through the first stitch, in his mind, her lungs filling with air.