In walked the witnesses. First, , gliding through the hall like smoke caught in a tailor-made suit. He had that West Coast lean, a man who had survived the marriage by never truly letting Hollywood in his house. He looked at the legal papers and let out a soft, rhythmic chuckle. "She’s a cold one, nephews. Don't look back when you walk out that door."
André looked at the pen. He thought about the music they made before the cameras started demanding they play characters. He thought about the South, where the dirt was real and the stars were in the sky, not under your feet.
The neon lights of the Sunset Strip didn't glow; they bled. André sat in the back of a black sedan, watching the palm trees pass like jagged teeth against a bruised purple sky. He wasn't thinking about the charts or the Grammys. He was thinking about a girl he used to love named Tinseltown. She was a beauty once—all celluloid dreams and silent film grace—but she’d aged into a monster with a silicone heart and a penchant for eating her young. "It’s just a paper signing, Dre," the driver muttered. But it wasn't. It was a divorce.