She stepped out of the shower and shuffled toward the bathroom mirror. 9:00 PM, one week after she lost it all.

Hillary wiped the fog off her vanity, moving her hand slowly in clockwise circles. Her hands were shaking. They never stopped shaking these days. She coughed and looked at her reflection.

She was wrapped in a plain white towel. She looked at her skin, sagging and pruny from the warm shower. Cold air blew in the window.

She looked at her body and her aging face. No make-up, no hair product, no little American flag pendant on her chest. She met her gaze in the mirror.

For the first time, Hillary felt truly alone. Her eyes grew red, and the tears began welling up. She could call Bill, but he was asleep. She could call Chelsea, but she was off doing work for the Foundation…or what was left of it.

For the first time, Hillary saw only Hillary. Not the first female president. Not the first lady of the 90’s. Not the female Senator from New York, or the secretary of state who once spent her days, weeks, months jet-setting around the world.

She was none of that. It was as if she never was. She saw a 68 year old woman staring back at her. She cried. Her whole life seemed to be building to a triumphant end and now she was nothing.

She was simply an old woman. A woman who had never truly loved. She married a man who slept around and never felt passion for their marriage. A man who was too caught up in his own power plays and affairs to really look at her and say “My dear, you look beautiful tonight.”

She had never really lived her life. She let her life pass her by.

Yes, for the first time in a very, very long time, Hillary felt alone. Hillary felt powerless. Hillary felt meaningless and her life did too. Hillary felt old.

She sat down on the edge of her shower, and buried her face into her hands. For the first time in years, she cried.

The cold November wind whistled softly by the open window. And she cried.