"Cheers," Ernest reached over and lifted his own glass in return. He took a slow sip, and then circled the bar to get back to his own stool again.
"Yeah, yeah, I got the joke," he told him, with a dismissive wave. "You just never told me what it was you actually do," he explained. He took another sip, put the glass down, and nodded at Joe's carefully positioned notebook. It looked so clean and organised compared to his own, with it's curled corners, ripped pages, scratched cover, pencil barely sharp enough to actually write with. "A writer, then?" he asked, based on both the notebook and his words.
What was he working on? Hem raised his eyebrows, shrugged it off like it wasn't important. "Nothing important. Not yet." With For Whom the Bell Tolls just published, he was still figuring out what came next. For now - scene studies, nothing more.