Brass Shaving Mirror

A cloudy morning start of a priest woke up in a dazed state, suspended from the reality of its environment. He staggered to his boudoir, looked up at the mirror and looked at his face with an expression of torture and unrest instead of peace worthy servant of God. Its thin silver shaggy hair stood on one side, creating a halo around his head broken; deep wrinkles formed a bitter half "O" around his mouth. Wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes did not belong to a man accustomed to tending to her garden in full sun, but a man who has spent many sleepless nights reading in the light of a candle single flickering and try to find salvation.
He knew what to do today. He had done hundreds of times before. But it did not make things easier, not for himself or the girl he was seeing.
It stopped above the sink. Taking the pitcher he poured water through his fingers. He tried to form a palm to collect water, but his hands trembled too much to do any physical form coherent. He smiled bitterly. As the water in his hand, his life was running desperately away slowly from year to year, having its own spirit, his own will and had little or no control over its results. Detachedly, he washed the traces and odors of wine last night, shaved, brushed teeth, put a fresh change of underwear and clothing, and painted to hear. He took a cane leaning against his usual seat near the door and leaned heavily on its polished brass handle. Taking a last look in the mirror required, he saw a man dressed in black with a white collar around the neck, back hunched over the sins he wore from age.
The distant thunder and light rain but alleged he never came. He breathed deeply into the hot stuffy atmosphere as he walked a winding path barely visible to the cliffs and away from the village. The patches of green grass, choked with weeds and badly yellowed by the sun, were erected by people reluctant to engage in this relatively short but difficult. His black leather boots and took a few quick dust carts rolling by, and his lungs straining to meet the wishes of the occasion surprised people sitting high above the carriage. He paused a moment, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his wet face. The trip was a torture to venture into such a hot and humid day, alone, on foot, but he acknowledged the difficult conditions with the fervor of a convert to repent of his useless life.
When he finally reached the top of a cliff, he saw the girl at once. She was standing in a circle of people who came from the mother of the girl's funeral. The few officers seemed eager to tell their condolences to bid their farewells and generally unpleasant to do their duty. He knew that the priest of a village far from the Shire, which was blithely unaware of the tainted reputation of the deceased, conducted the funeral service and now has disappeared. He knew that because he himself paid for the services - the notion that he is the dead woman in eternal peace is ridiculous.
He waited patiently until the last guest, a haggard old woman mature, dig a little hard little chin of the girl, pressed tightly with dark wrinkled fingers and said something, as if a warning or reprimand ... He could not say. The eyes of the girl have been persistently expressed in the freshly dug grave and outside a sign of recognition, she did not say a thing. But at the end of the witch was gone too.
And then she raised her head and her blue eyes looked directly at him surprisingly.
He took a deep breath and finished the distance between the two climbs.
"Hello, Alice." He murmured.
"Hello, Vicar." She replied politely but thick as if the words were difficult to obtain from his throat.
He drank the bitter green light in the throat and blinked to try.