...of frustration

We sit down. He orders a bourbon and water, I stick to beer. I look about me and say to myself that this time this is it, this is perhaps the journey's end for my luckless companion. We're in a student cafe, everyone's happy, everybody wants to have fun. There are lots of tables with two or three young women at them, there are even some girls alone at the bar.
I watch Tisserand while assuming my most engaging air. The young men and women in the cafe touch each other. The women push back their hair with a graceful gesture. They cross their legs, await the occasion to burst into laughter. In short, they're having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: 'We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly her lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.

[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]