"Exactly," Steven complimented with a chuckle at his comment. He remembered (sort of?) the days when he'd had nothing but his guitar and what he could get for a few tunes. Look at him now -- here he was, the Man himself.
Blech.
"That's a sour thought," he muttered to himself, putting the guitar aside with a loving care that seemed a visual translation of everything he felt for his worn friend. Rising, he made his way over to the cupboard where, after a few failed attempts, at last opened the drawer containing his corkscrew.
"Here you go," he said, sliding it across the table. As though the conversation had not stalled (and, in fact, he had failed to reply to the question for nearly a minute), he answered, "Not really. But, I really don't do much of the work." Chuckling, he added, "I just like the life..."