Ben Carson looks longingly into the mirror of his hotel bathroom. He picks a grey hair out of his beard and notices the bags under his eyes in a rare moment of peace and reflection the doctor used to relish before major surgeries. He hasn’t felt that rush, that in the zone, in a long time. He’s no longer behind the spotlight, a team of nurses at his back — the spotlight’s now on him, he’s the one being dissected by the media and political schemers. An ache of loneliness sinks in his chest, if only he could have a connection with another person, just the physical touch and smile from a friend.
A memory flashes through Ben’s mind that makes him smile. Hours earlier, he and Donald Trump clasped hands in front of the nation during the debate; then Donald touched the small of his back… and lingered there, if only for a second.
Tonight’s the night, a voice in Ben stirs as he meets his eyes in the mirror.
Tonight’s the night, the doctor echoes as he pulls the blowdryer from the wall, crouches to the floor, and aims it at his freshly scrubbed asshole.