He knew that what he remembered was not what had happened, and yet what he remembered meant so much more that it was hard to give it up for what had actually happened.  They had been walking riverside, under drooping trees, the sun reflecting on them off rippling water, mildly discussing — almost in whispers — a mutual break-up, and not, as had actually happened, having broken off in a snit in a city alley.  He had over time turned the alley break-up scene into an ideal in his mind for how break-ups ought to play out.  How else was one to improve?