Bramwell claims his height offers “perspective”. Lies. He just craves eyes.
Polished thrice weekly – twice if lonely, once extra for guests. His base shines like polished amber in a coat pocket.
Ask sweetly, and he’ll pivot, flaunting the whorls near his spine.“Mexican sandalwood,” he’ll murmur as if confessing a crime.
But at night, he duels the window’s reflection – who glints brighter? Who holds stares longer? The moon always votes for Bramwell.