Excerpt

He carried his sneakers under his arm as he eased open the door and shut it gently, twisting the knob so the lock wouldn't make a noise. He found it funny how people became used to the intricacies of objects, how they each have their own personality. An understanding of most of the objects in the apartment had been obtained from his many visits;

The stove was a cold old maid, her pilot light went out after every use. You had to lighter her fire and coax it into the burner with a careful twist of the dial. She never warmed up completely. It could take hours to make a meal.

The television was the stoves cranky hubby. If you aren't paying full attention to it, it fills your ears with white noise and distortions, crying 'look at me! pay attention!'

The television is always in the living room staring at nothing. The stove is always in the kitchen, being still.

The lighting is a young child. Only a few years old, and rarely does what you say. There is a worry it will somehow start a fire in the walls. The floor creaks and groans as though your walking on an arthritic back, so it must be tread on lightly. The mirror reflects poor self esteem with heavy wear, scratches, and oxidization on its face. 

The shower is a careless nurse. Sometimes it touches you with freezing hands, other times it burns you.

They are really like  people. On the whole you can trust them, but they don't always listen, and they don't always work. And one day, they will die.