We have this thing, a little signal.
Thumb touching the middle and forefingers, hand held up, fingers pointing down doing a side-to-side motion for a couple of seconds.
"You're dangling him" I said, doing the sign. "He really likes you, and you don't feel the same. So you're dangling."
"But I like him and want to be his friend."
"Then don't sleep with him."
It was the kind of honest conversation we're used to having; the sort that cuts through the bullshit. And this, my friends, was the sort of bullshit I'd come to know well.
It's a fact that dangling in any situation is dangerous (cliffs, windowsills, by feet - anywhere), but never more so than when it's done with someone's heart.
Because dangling is neither here nor there. It's perhaps, maybe and I don't know what I want, but in the meantime, I'll have you.
It's occasionally, when it suits - and then it's good, so you hang on a little bit longer. But then it's back to not right now, but yeah, stay around while I decide and texts - so many texts - most enthusiastically sent post 10pm, when alcohol has a bigger part to play than anything else.
Above all, being dangled is tough on the resolve, and it wears you down.
Excuses come thick and fast. Well, he must like you because... But in truth, you're a snap of attention when they need it, the one who'll definitely respond, and you'd recognise it happening to anyone else but yourself.
PIB did the signal to me two months before the realisation finally struck: that you can only be treated a certain way when you allow it to happen.
Being dangled is a choice.
"He's dangling you," she said, not for the first time, as we walked through the back roads of Old Street a couple of weeks back. "For whatever reason, and I'm sure he's a nice chap - but he's not being fair."
And the penny dropped - again, not for the first time - but on this occasion the resolve not to be a half measure stuck.
One text went unanswered. Two, three, four.
And then, finally, silence - save for a little, disappointed sigh.