Table and Spoon Circles

If I kept a journal, there are a few things that I'd write in it. Perhaps I'd describe the contrast of my couch's pink flower decor in comparison to the dark skin of my roommate's legs as he told me about his country last night. Perhaps I'd write about the brilliant color of an old friend's hair in yesterday's sunlight as we were reunited months after I had to tell her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. Maybe I'd write about the insults that this same friend managed to subtly sling at me with frightening skill and finesse as I stood dumbfounded. Perhaps I'd write about how I smiled in relief as she walked away, knowing that she finally felt better after exacting her premeditated revenge. Maybe I'd write about none of these things, because blogging briefly about them is more than enough.
I drag my thumb along the smooth edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Whenever I'm tasked with choosing where to sit, I always choose the round tables. Maybe I appreciate how nonthreatening they are, but mostly they remind me of the regality of a fictional King Arthur's court. Sean Connery would be proud.
I look up from the table's edge. She's still complaining about work. I shouldn't mind, seeing as how I was the one to ask her how work is these days. And do I expect any true-blooded American to not complain about his or her job? I guess I dug my own grave this time.
At the next break in her story, I interrupt her with the first question that comes to my mind, which for some reason turns out to be: "Do you know what it means to believe in something?"
Taken aback slightly, she quickly says, "Of course I do." I watch as she looks up from the table, her black hair falling nicely beside either side of her face. Our conversation has taken a sudden turn for the more serious, and I'm not sure if I like where it's going with her; she doesn't really seem to know how to answer for herself as she continues, "But I don't see how that's important."
I wonder if she's ever really thought much about the question for herself, but instead I just say, "You're right. It's not that important. I'm not sure why I brought it up."
She eyes me as I innocently savor another bite of my burger. I can see a mark of frustration on her brow. "Okay, but what does it mean to you to believe in something?"
Chuckling, I set the burger back on the table. "To me? That's an ever-changing answer."
"Then give me your current answer."
"Well, if you really believe in something you should feel good about it, and you should trust it. And not because of what anyone else tells you. Be that what it may."
"I guess that makes sense. I've never really thought about it much," she says as if talking to someone else entirely, apparently herself, as we both lean back in our chairs.
Glancing down at the illuminated screen peeking out my pocket, I know that I have to go soon.
She must have noticed, because she makes one more request, "Before you go, have you ever managed to bend a plastic spoon into a complete circle without it breaking?"
"No! Can it actually be done?"
Smiling, she assures me that it can.
"All right, I'll give it a try," I tell her while grabbing the only spoon lying on the table.