Don’t forget he kissed her in a coffin.

A glass coffin, with half-wilted, half exhausted flowers. They framed her, roses and lilies and flowering weeds, the decomposed and fragrantly putrid flowers on the bottom, layered in a delicious rotting parfait of foliage. The glass enclosure was fogged over with the warmth of decay, though she herself was impeccable. Her skin was chalk in pallor, her eyes closed. As if preserved in arsenic, she was perfection. He lifted the heavy lead-glass lid, and the seven small men helped set it gently to the ground. He admired her voiceless throat, her sightless eyes, her mind which could not reject, her soul which was not present. He stroked her jaw, cold as marble flooring. He leaned down into her vicinity, and met her unresponsive apple-flavored lips with his.

So when you watch them together in the banquet hall, at the ballroom; she with jet black hair and vibrant lips, she with lively movements and limber voice; he with cold and nervous actions, broken eye contact, and no children; don’t forget he kissed her in a coffin.

Don’t forget he kissed her when she was cold as death.