He tells her he is genuinely bored. That this is not the angst of early 20s, or the intellectual smugness of being 26. It has now descended into absolute boredom. One is forced to wonder if boredom strikes when the predictability of life is a little too obvious. Or, worse. If predictability has little to do with it. That the idea of life itself, irrespective of how unpredictable it could get bores one.
The semantics of it is mildly interesting. Was he bored with life. Was he bored with himself. Is there any difference. Does it come down to two things? Being bored with Deja Vu. Or being bored with pointless itself. It’s easy to be five years old. Not because somebody else wipes your ass, or cooks for you. It’s easy because you’ve just met yourself, and can easily entertain yourself.
She wonders if he’s the same as her. Ennui is a sin, as Oscar Wilde declared it. Boredom is pedestrian. Ennui was exotic enough to sustain her through boredom.
He tells her that boredom will kill him. She tells him that she’s too proud to die of anything. They are now bored of this conversation.
Note – On rereading this, I am so bored with this fragment. I am sorry to subject you to this.