The geyser is reliable, Old Faithful they call it. When it strays, abandoning its timetable, that’s when the earthquakes come calling. That’s what they say. As if regular habits—of a husband, of a geyser—could fool us into feeling the ground is solid. As if my man’s consistent waking at 6:30 and out the door at 7 could become a shield against disaster. We live on moving plates of earth; their edges do not always meet neatly. We ought to know this, but we forget.

My man has that dash of discernment, the right amount of awareness when he is quiet. As the full gush of the geyser shoots forth into the clear blue sky, he isn’t that impressed. Tourists snap so many pictures, oohing and ahhing in an excitable wave. They would later see us in the background, on the other side of the geyser’s hot pool, sitting under a canopy in lounge chairs made out of wine barrels. Both of us blasé, making a judgment. Is this all there is?

But no, wait, as the alpha rush of the geyser slows and the tourists start to move away, the beta coolness kicks in. A smaller spurt, carried horizontally by the breeze, spreads itself like diamond berry jam on toast. It is the sparkles, the glam particles scattered in the air that gets me. It is the subtle, not so obvious shapes of the hot thermal spray that get him. Nuance, subtlety, that just-right detail that makes something sing. That’s us, the beta people.

Later we swim in the mineral pool, thick water cooled by the distance from that showy geyser. New bathing suits trick us into thinking we are new people. But here we are keeping our heads above water, tamed still, although our hair is thoroughly soaked with a faint metallic scent. We also play pool with broken-tipped cues, laughing at how bad, then genius, we are, careening with a sharp crack just like those colored balls. After play, we sleep like smoothed pebbles.

This kind of love, that glints when the sun hits it the right way, is ours. Not perfect, not operatic, but soaring in quick flashes throughout the day. Not at regular intervals, but taking us by surprise, his freckled hand seeking mine on the way to the corner store for the buttermilk required to make our cornbread. Me making him laugh, tiny earthquakes to quicken the heart. This kind of love, just this.