I dreamed

Neale is not a player. Neale is a pressure system. 1023.9 hPa and rising, the weather report says, but inside the house the air feels like it is being compressed by a giant, invisible thumb. The Lions are praying, which is a weird thing for a team to do. It implies a god who watches football. It implies a god who cares about a ban. I am standing in the kitchen, holding a glass of water, but the water is thick, like treacle, and it hums at a low frequency. 11,635 knocks against the door. Not on the wood. On the glass. Thud-thud-thud. A rhythmic pounding that matches the rising pressure. The glass shatters, not into shards, but into tiny, floating beads of ice. They hang in the air, suspended, waiting for the ban to stand. If it stands, the ice melts. If he gets off, the ice freezes solid. I watch a single bead drift toward my face. It tastes like salt and anxiety. The pressure drops.

The ice hits my tongue. It is cold enough to burn.