His lips are cold when she finally kisses him. They taste bitter, smothered under death and dust. Her hand trembles as it touches dirty, gritty lemon coloured hair. There is the taste of salt, seeping from her eyelids to her mouth, where her teeth knock with his in hopes that maybe a second time will wake him up, maybe if she makes up for all the times she did not give him a kiss when he asked.
(How about a kiss, saumensch?)
Days later, seated and shivering in a bath tub, the book thief closes her tired eyes and remembers the way Rudy Steiner's lips tasted like regret.