When Karma Doesn’t Even Need Your Help
The stone patio was still wet from where I’d climbed out.
Kira’s heel hit a slick patch.
She slipped.
There was a sharp gasp, a flail of arms, and then —
SPLASH.
She went straight backward into the pool.
For a second, no one made a sound. Then she resurfaced — soaked, mascara streaked, hair plastered to her face, dress clinging to her like soggy tissue paper.
Someone snorted.
And then the whole place cracked up. Not mean, gloating laughter — just the helpless kind when the universe delivers irony so perfect you couldn’t script it better.
Kira scrambled out of the pool, shaking, humiliated, absolutely stripped of any moral high ground about her “little joke.”
