Helpless by H. Ward Page A

them.  They can’t tell where I am looking, they have no idea if I am paying attention to them or not.
                  The day is starting to warm up.  I notice that Jason is also wearing shorts.  Not as tight as mine, but they are showing off his manly, sporty legs.  Nice.  He has also just put on his sunglasses.
                  We decide to take a guided tour to listen to the history of this historic bridge and get the fully story of the tower, as I only know it is also called the White Tower, but not much more.  Jason seems to be soaking up the history, the use of the building as a fortress, the battles over who had control of the White Tower, which is really a sprawling castle-type thing and not in a tower form at all.  It is cool inside and I am enjoying the tour.  I flick my dark sunglasses up on my head.  I find that I am holding hands with Jason and often lean into him as we stop at various spots and listen to another tidbit about something that happened in the way back when.
                  We joke and look for the ghost of Anne Boleyn.  Lore has it she haunts the chapel of St. Peter as well as the Tower of London, roaming around with her head tucked under her arm.  We hit an outside café and Jason is insistent that I actually have a full plate of fish and chips.  He goes for the same.  Being from Texas, I am comfortable with vinegar over my fries, they put vinegar in chili and other dishes there.  Jason is trying it that way for me, he made a face at the thought of vinegar, but my pretty-please face won him over.  I know there are fewer calories in vinegar than ketchup, I don’t say that, but I tease him into eating it my way. 
                  Then it hits me, most British types would go for the salt and vinegar. I have still never asked Jason anything about his background.  I find I actually really want to know. 
                  “So where did you grow up?”
                  “I was born in Germany, but my father is American, so I have dual citizenship.  That makes it easy to travel in Europe for me now.” 
                  I nod, the European Union encourages people to travel all over, making it very easy if you have a birth certificate from any of their member nations.  Still, it is not much harder with a passport, just more expensive, and the EU members get sweet discounts on train tickets.
                  I lean forward to show him I am listening.
                  “Mother is Norwegian, tall but not actually blonde, she had medium brown hair and my father had dark brown, so I guess that is why I don’t look Norwegian at all.”
                  I miss that he used the past tense when talking about his parents.  Looking back, it makes me sad that I was so self-involved.  I never paid attention, really paid attention, to anyone in my life back then.  My attention always centered around me and what I wanted from the day.  At that time, I just picked up on Norwegian and American and felt that was enough.  Then I went back to assessing him and seeing if he fit into any acceptable categories for my life.
                  I look at his big hands; again, not fat or really over plump, but solid big hands.  They are pretty pale though.  I smile.  There’s some of the Norwegian.
                  “What are you smiled at?” He wasn’t accusing, but I felt busted anyway.  I don’t know why, but I just blurted out the truth.
                  “I was thinking your hands are almost as pale as mine, so you certainly got that from your mother.”
                  He chuckles. 
                  “So what is a pale Norwegian boy like you doing in London speaking almost perfect English, or rather, more like American English?”
                  “Ah, I said I was born in Germany…my father worked with a