Like Taking Altoids from a Dead Woman

Last week, I helped a professor clean out the personal belongings of a much-loved opera diva who recently passed away. We took dozens of baskets and stacked them up, cleaned off all the shelves, packed up the photo albums, and recycled all the papers. We dusted off the picture frames, and taped up boxes to be sent to the singer's family. I emptied the desk of its paper clips, keys that don't unlock anything, and piles of letterhead, and there among the junk was a beautiful practically-new box of Altoids. Which I promptly stuck into my pocket at a moment when the professor I was helping would not notice. Is that wrong? It feels a little creepy, but was Ms. Opera Diva going to need them now? Not unless there's a need for fresh breath in the afterlife. I wasn't about to let good things go to waste. But I can picture the scenario where I'm not just in her studio, but at her funeral, and there amongst the casket belongings are some minty-fresh treats. And I just reach in.
I guess the point of the story is: I've been enjoying the mints of a dead woman, and my breath has never been fresher.

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