Post traumatic stress

Earlier this week we went with Al and Ginny to have dinner at John and Judy's house.  Al, Tom and John were all Austrian missionaries.  We ate the BEST wienerschnitzel and red cabbage and the men told their favorite mission stories:  like the guy who got married on his mission and hoped to keep it a secret for a year.  Lots of hee-hawing.  Apfelstrudel for dessert.

When it was time to go home, John took Tom and Al down in the elevator to the garage.  The women lingered on the stairs.  We hear a loud jolt and find that the elevator has stopped between floors.  John calls to Judy to do something to a box somewhere.  She disappears, returns to say that she can't make it work.  John calls the elevator repair company from inside the elevator.

We three women gather around the kitchen island and begin eating again.  Judy makes us doggy bags to take home, which Ginny and I plan to eat secretly.  We laugh at our husbands stuck in a  4x4 box.
Then we forget about them and just laugh at our own stories.  Ginnie and I consider taking the car home without them.

After an hour, the repairman comes and lets the men out of their cage.   Al is sweating, but Tom looks like he's about to faint.  He heads straight for the kitchen sink and drinks a couple of glasses of water.
"It got hot in there," Al said.

Anyway, Tom has had post traumatic stress syndrome since the lock up.  His hands start shaking and he feels faint.

I ate the leftovers the next afternoon without him.