San Francisco is in California, USA.

Song you might want to listen to while reading: Hazy by: Rosi Goland

San Francisco is pretty, but other than that, it's like any other city; loud, busy, and dirty. She had stopped at one of the restaurants after being pushed around, shoved, and tripping over someone else's stupid dog. Even the glass windows that separated her and the rest of the city couldn't mute it's honking, and yells. She was looking outside, men in business suits walking around, this lady, gripping a six-year-old's hand tightly. The tall buildings were almost blocking out the sky, making the small, quaint diner look small and lonely.

The bell on the door rang. It was a loud trill against the quiet atmosphere. Someone had stepped into the store. She pursed her lips.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in and sighed. She could feel the cool wooden park-bench style chairs under her. They were chipped and worn, and only gave so much comfort. Her boothe was made for four people.

One person could sit here. Alone. Or two. Two friends, engaged in a game of chess. A couple, sharing a milkshake. Or maybe three, a family with one child, a couple and a third wheel. Or four. Double dates, a family with two children, a friendly outing. Her chest ached for the things she couldn't get.
The door rang again. Someone left, a guy with a sweatshirt, holding a brown paper bag. He looped in front of the store and set it on one of the black metal tables in the front.

They were one of those bad meal chairs. They screech when you move them slightly, and they were designed awkwardly. No doubt that when you sit on them, your clothes would be caught in the sharp metal edges and your back stained with cobwebs.

Then, the guy left, walking down the street toward a destination only he knew.

He didn't come back.

People forget things. Did he deliberately put it there? She pulled out her iPod and shoved her ear buds into her ears. After all, she didn't come here to worry about some else's paper bag.

She paid for her food and walked out. The same trill of the bell, but someone else was leaving. She stopped in front of the bag and looked around. Lifting it up, she inspected it. The paper crinkled loudly under her fingers. By passers glared at her like she murdered someone. She held back the urge to snap back at them.

For you.

It was written on an index card that was stapled on it. She looked around, then against her better judgment, she opened it.

Two cookies, a muffin and a bottle of water. According to the receipt that was shoved in there, it was ten dollars and thirty-two cents, without tax. The change was fifty-two cents.

She flipped the receipt over. The back was covered in a wobbly handwriting, as if they were rushing to go somewhere else. The ink was purple, a strange choice for a guy. She stared at the first line that he wrote:

Turn around.

She turned around, she looked at a newspaper stand. 'Are the Paintings Real? Or Fake?' Was in bold, Times New Roman font on the top. The newspaper was faded, a little bit torn, and wet from the rain overnight.

Cross the street.

She looked around and tapped the metal desk, making a 'ping' sound every time. Finally she stopped, and leaned against the metal pole of the street lamp. The traffic light turned red, a white person glowed, signaling for her to walk.

Bookstore just a few doors down.

She knew where that was. She's been there. Quite a few times too. The place was much similar to the little diner, quiet and peaceful.

To the back.

The familiar scent of printed pages, and ink swam through the air. She breathed in. It was calming. The steady rhythm of tapping keyboards. Someone pushed open a drawer over at the 'Movie' section.

Aisle 2

She turned and at the end, trailing her fingers along the book's spine. Reading over the titles and the authors. She picked out a book and flipped over a few pages, scanning through, to see if she would like it.

She approached the end of aisle 2, and looked around. There was that guy, with the hoodie, reading a book. He was sitting on a chair, leaning on his elbows. The title:

'How to Talk to Girls'

"How do you know that a girl would pick up that paper bag?" She asked.

Startled he looked up, he smiled, "A hunch,"

"Want to sit?" He scooted to the edge of the seat.

She shook her head no, she just leaned against the book shelves. She tucked her book under her arms.

She offered him the food he had bought. Opening the paper bag and offering him an apple. He shook his head.

"So, are there a lot of you guys? Writing love notes and leaving them in the middle of the city?"
"Nah, It's just San Francisco. It's just me."