The arbitrator looked at Pembridge. He was sweating. The sequins on Elara’s vest caught the fluorescent light again, casting a tiny, golden star onto his sleeve. He brushed at it, missed, and looked at his own grey suit. He looked tired.
The arbitrator, a heavyset woman with spectacles perched on the end of her nose, looked down at her tablet. "Frivolous Dressorder? Mr. Pembridge, that is not a standard code violation. Are you referring to the incident of the floral print?" frivolous dressorder
"I do not deny the attire," Elara said. "I deny the definition of 'frivolous.'" The arbitrator looked at Pembridge
"Yes. Standard issue."
"Because you crave attention!"
"Look at the numbers," Elara said, her voice gaining strength. "The department was in a slump. Morale was low. People were falling asleep at their desks. Then, on Tuesday, I wore the socks. Productivity ticked up by 2%. Thursday, the hat. Up 3%." He brushed at it, missed, and looked at his own grey suit
"I am referring to the systemic erosion of corporate sobriety!" Pembridge stood up, pointing a trembling finger at Elara. "Three weeks ago, it was the neon-green socks. Last week, it was a hat. A trilby , indoors! And yesterday... yesterday was the final straw."