An excerpt from Bruce’s piece in the Calgary Herald:
As it grows late on Christmas Eve, my children hang their stockings in front of our shabby chic gas-converted fireplace. They are too excited to go to bed yet, so we check the “Santa-tracker” on my laptop. Yep, there he is over Greenland. Here he comes! As they finally let me tuck them in, I am peppered with questions about Santa. Will he come? Does he really exist? I look into their sweet, hopeful faces and tell them I know “for a fact that he is real.” What I can’t tell them, is the reason I know. I know Santa is real because years ago I was in a romantic triangle with him.
As my children fade off to sleep, I throw back the drink she and I used to drink—a rye and eggnog. I unplug my Christmas tree and remember how it felt all those years ago. With her, lying on the futon in my apartment above Bagels and Buns. Curled up together, breathing as if we were one. It felt like time had both stopped and was hurtling toward the future. We were young, dumb and in love in equal amounts. Me and the woman who would later become Mrs. Claus. She was the one that got away.
I met Eve when I was 21. I had just finished my shift at the warehouse in Northeast Calgary and luckily I stopped at a diner for a bite. I looked up from my toasted western and there she was; a soft pale face, a red vintage dress that hugged her curves, matching lipstick and a sexy little blunt cut—the kind that only looks good on a woman who’s young and full of life. She was on fire. One of those lost souls whose hunger for life draws you in as quickly as it spits you out. But still, you can’t resist. She walked over and asked me to sign a Greenpeace petition—something about saving reindeer near Carstairs. But I didn’t read it. I just took the pen, warm from her hand, and scribbled my name. I would have signed anything she gave me. Staring into her brown eyes, I was already gone.
Read the whole piece here.