Shark Fin Dinner Party

The shark fin dinner party took place on a cold, rainy Saturday night in late August. It marked the end of that strange transitory summer and the beginning of something else.

- Ling Ma

The guests consisted of a mix of college friends and Jane’s people, co-workers and neighbours. They crowded into our railroad apartment, guys in skinny ties and suits, girls with big Aqua Net hair and acrylic nails. They piled their coats on our beds, rolled a keg up the stairs, brought little hostess gifts. Giorgio Moroder played in the background. Someone came dressed as Ronald Reagan, pelting girls with jelly beans from his suit pocket.

We’d created a makeshift Trump-themed dining table in our living room by arranging collapsible card tables end to end. Over this Jane had laid a metallic gold tablecloth, weighted by a thrifted brass candelabra, and bouquets of fake plastic flowers she’d spraypainted gold. On the table were ironic predinner canapes: salmon mousse quenelles with dill cream, spinach dip in a bread bowl, Ritz crackers and a ball of pimento cheese in the shape of Trump’s hair.

I navigated through the rooms in one of my mother’s loose, billowy Contempo Casuals dresses, this one black with a white burnout Africana print.

In the midst of this fray was Steven Reitman, dressed as if for a Hamptons boating party, standing amongst the secondhand furniture of my bedroom. I had invited him almost as a joke, considering that we hadn’t seen each other all summer, so I hadn’t actually expected him to come.

Is this a dinner party or a costume party? he asked, pressing his whiskered cheek to mine in an air kiss. The scent of his expensive yuzu aftershave made me suddenly wistful for the few times we’d spent together. I swallowed.

You don’t need an ’80s costume, I said. You can say you’re here for research, observing millennials in their natural habitat. I sat down on the edge of my bed, pushing aside the mountain of jackets.