The Last Set
MartĂn's hair had started falling out at thirty-seven, strand by strand like time itself slipping through his fingers. Now at forty-five, the expensive transplant was his victory flag, a dark swath proclaiming he hadn't surrendered to gravity yet.
"You're taking those vitamins?" Elena called from across the padel court, her voice cutting through the humid afternoon air. She'd always been able to read him from a distance.
"Every morning." MartĂn adjusted his sweatband, suddenly conscious of the hair he'd paid too much to regrow. The blue tablets promised renewed energy, better focus, thicker everything. At this age, you bought hope in bottles.
They'd been divorced two years tomorrow. Padel had been their thing—the Sunday matches, the tournaments, the way a perfectly placed shot could feel like foreplay. Now they only played when the club's mixed doubles bracket demanded it.
Elena's ponytail swung as she smashed the ball past him. She'd stopped dyeing her grays, something he'd noticed during their last match. She looked more honest than he felt.
"Your new girlfriend take them too?" she asked between points, casual as asking about the weather.
"She's twenty-eight, Elena. She doesn't need vitamins yet."
The words hung between them, heavier than the summer heat. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant to be cruel. But cruelty was easier than admitting he'd replaced their shared history with someone who didn't remember when his hair had first started thinning.
Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes. "No. I suppose she doesn't."
They finished the set in silence. As they shook hands over the net, MartĂn noticed something that made his chest tight: Elena's wedding finger was bare. She'd worn a ring there for sixteen years, and he'd never asked why she'd stopped wearing it before their marriage even ended.
"Your hair looks good, by the way," she said, gathering her gear. "Really."
He wanted to tell her the vitamins made his heart race sometimes. That he'd stopped taking them last month. That the transplant was for nobody but her.
"Thanks," he said instead. "You should think about not coloring yours. The gray—it suits you."
Elena paused at the gate, sunlight catching the silver at her temples. "I decided to stop running from things I couldn't change."
She walked away without looking back. MartĂn stood alone on the court, running his hand through hair that wasn't really his, clutching a bottle of vitamins he didn't need, realizing too late that while he'd been busy trying to turn back time, Elena had been learning how to move forward.