PROLOG
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The old, grungy man picked up a bowl in his tingling fingers. A pair of eyes followed him, their green depths full of intrigue and defensiveness. They watched as the heavily layered elder shuffled forward in the line of people just like him, homeless and cold. There was an air of something special about him though. Something that made him seem superior to the people around. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the way he seemed a tad happier than his surrounding beings.
She casually kept her eye on him, ladling chicken noodle soup into New York's Super Storm Sandy victims and homeless alike. An extreme curiosity grew in her stomach, and she finally spoke as the man came to her station at the Red Cross soup kitchen. "Hello sir." She said lightly. His weary brown eyes looked upward to see a curly redhead goddess talking to him. A slow smile lightened his wizened face. "Hello ma'am. I am feeling a mite lonely. Lost my house and wife to Sandy here. Could you sit with me to pass the time?" He asked, his voice gruff, giving off a grandfather feel.
Hearing his voice of loss, she nodded to a woman in the back who came to relieve her. The people at the shelter were encouraged to socialize with the victims, get to know their stories and what they need. She undid her apron and met him by the staff door. The pair walked in a comfortable silence to the corner of the room, at the only empty table in the place. They slid in, the elegant woman in jeans and a black tee on one side and the bundled up man on the other.
He took a few slurps of the soup, his hands trembling slightly. The lady waited in patience, studying him all the while. After a minute or two, he set his spoon down and dabbed at his lip. "I'm Bucky. You, miss?" He held out a hand for her to shake. Accepting it gratefully, she replied, "Natalie Rushman." They shook, small smiles on each of their faces.
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So, how was that for a prolog? Tell me what you think!