More “Despair”

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Here’s more of the story. Sorry about the awkward format. I’m working on figuring out how to translate it better.

But he didn’t go home. Instead, he went to his store. He owned a postal annex on the corner of West State and Wells. He opened the door with his key and disabled the alarm with the numerical code he himself had devised. Then he stood at the island in the lobby with his elbows resting on the counter and stared at the copy machines. There were two, one color and one black-and-white.
He didn’t turn on the lights. He preferred the stripes of shadow and light that the streetlights created. He moved to the back of the store and sat at his desk with his hand on the phone.
He had met her at the store. She had come through the door one day just like any other customer, except that he knew instantly that he would try to have sex with her.
She wasn’t beautiful and her nose was pierced. His wife was probably a little prettier than she was. But she was interesting looking where his wife’s beauty was standard, run-of-the-mill attractiveness. Her hair was short and kind of messy, as if she hadn’t taken the time to brush it before she left the house. She was wearing torn blue jeans and a blue hooded sweatshirt. Her glasses had brown plastic frames and he could hear his wife calling her “eccentric.” His wife didn’t like eccentrics and, usually, neither did he.

He had been watching her on the security camera while his assistant manager Tanya, who was also his wife’s sister, helped her. When she was about to leave, he emerged from the back and offered her a business card.
When she looked at him and he saw her face up close, he realized that she was probably at least ten years younger than he was, maybe closer to twenty.
“We have printing services and finishing services, like binding and laminating and stuff,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied politely. Her voice was soft and distracted.
“It isn’t just about shipping packages.”
“I saw the copy machines.”
He nodded. “We have a really terrific color copier.”
“Okay. Thank you for the information.”
He knew the exchange was awkward, but he himself was an awkward person so he was used to the feeling.
“Please come back,” he said as they neared the door.
“I will,” she promised.
“I’m Keith Taylor, the owner.”
“You own this store?” She seemed surprised and, he thought, perhaps a little bit impressed.
“Yes, for four years now.” He left out the part about how he was laid off after 17 years at International Harvester and then was unemployed for almost a year before he got a small business loan to open the store.
“Cool.”
In the parking lot, she got into a gray Honda Civic and turned left on to State.