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It was all going fine until one of her lips dropped off.
Just clean off.
Landed on the bed, bounced a bit, jiggled to a stop.
Needless to say, that was possibly the first time that had happened. To either of them.
After what can be best described as an awkward silence, she picked up her lip, examined it for a second or two, which was also fairly silent, she sort of shrugged, looked at him, made some sort of face, and tossed the lip back on the bed, this time on a pillow.
He thought quickly of something to say, but nothing seemed terribly pertinent. The last time he'd been stuck for something to say (which, of course, was accompanied by the rising panic within that perhaps he needn't say anything, a possibly sensible thought which, of course, he immediately questioned, if it seemed so sensible, what was it doing in his head, where invariably he was bound to have stupid thoughts in situations like this, that involved another person) he floundered for a bit in the yawning abyss that was his love-addled mind which wasn't providing a whole lot of useful feedback, nothing he could use at any rate; a few jettisoned thoughts swam idly by about her breasts, another about wine, nothing concrete, just a thought about wine, red, in fact, something equally vague about hemlock which he hadn't the faintest clue why it'd happened to come along, and, in the end, he wound up humming "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You" until, horrifyingly, he began singing "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You". Having neither a good singing voice nor a clear recollection of the exact lyrics, you would imagine he'd learn the lesson that having nothing to say sometimes may be an all right thing. As long as you do truly say nothing.

He made the immediate precaution of placing his hand over his mouth. Then, realising this may cause her to reflect on the fact that her lip lie on the pillow, well separated from her other one on her mouth, he removed his hands, though kept them fluttering nearby at the thought of himself singing. There was also a good chance that she was reflecting on the fact that her lip had fallen off, he thought, as that's probably an occurrence that takes some getting used to.

She also hadn't spoken yet.
Now, being a woman, she had a slightly more refined sense of when to speak and when not to speak, and what to say upon speaking, should she find herself doing so. She was also not entirely sure what her voice was going to sound like, coming out of a mouth with only one lip.
She wondered how this was going to effect their relationship, and the more practical matter of kissing and such. Now, she was quite certain that there were just certain turn-offs that a relationship, no matter how formerly stable it was, couldn't withstand: forgetting that he did or didn't support Manchester United, mentioning an obsession with Robbie Williams or Ronan Keating (equally bad, it would seem), or stabbing him with a fork. Now, granted, even though in the case of the last one the stabbing was purely accidental, a certain subliminal shiver was sent through the both of them, and things were never the same. She was never too eager to get into the prawn vindaloo from that time, either.
She was now debating whether or not to add having a lip fall off whilst kissing (as that's what they were doing, if you must know).
She wasn't quite sure how he was taking it, as his hand spasmed about just beneath his chin, and she wasn't postive, but he had a look on his face that meant he was either going to be ill or break out into song.
And when he noticed her staring (at which point she looked quickly away and then back again), he gave her a small smile, so she left it, for the moment, off the list.

disclaimer:
I'm still digging your scene.

Once upon a time, there was a giant noise across the land, and it annoyed a great many people, and their dogs barked incessantly at the giant noise.
And then the giant sea turtle, not necessarily accompanying the giant noise, ate the small, formerly quiet neighbourhood. And things were quiet once more.