The thing that drew my attention was the plastic tube hooked below his nostrils. And my gaze followed it down to the stylistic oxygen container on the floor beside his seat. His hair was short, white, slicked down, and receding. I thought it gave him a desperate, eager look.

And then I noticed. He was eager.

They were seated at a small table in the middle of the nearly empty McDonald's. Four old men talking away, laughing at each other's comments. The man with the oxygen tank was certainly the oldest looking of the four, but they were all old. And he was leaning into the conversation, eager to hear every word.

They were too far away to eavesdrop on, but you could tell the conversation was lively. No dreary recitation of illnesses, or deaths of old friends. Nor the mechanical repetition of old jokes worn with age. Their words were animated. The jokes fresh.

You could tell from the body language. These men were comfortable with each other.

No doubt they had been doing this for years.

My imagination had to fill in the rest. Were these men retired from the same job, working and meeting together for coffee for decades? They didn't look enough alike to have been brothers. Comrades in arms, perhaps?

How many years have these four men been meeting like this? How many decades?

I have been witness to male bonding for most of my adult life, but never a participant. Yes, I have had a few close male friends. But none where we tried to maintain contact long after careers moved them on their way. It is a life experience that I do not miss, but still wonder about.

What do these four old men have, that I will never know? How is it different from the close cameraderie I share with the wife? Is it less? Or something else entirely? Is it just a substitute for a closeness they do not share with their spouses?

What will it feel like for these gentlemen as their friends slowly die away?

That is a pain that I will most likely be spared. But watching them share their after-Christmas afternoon, I had to wonder what I was missing.