"Protection"
It was odd bit of personification – more so, given how prone she wasn't to bits of poetry – but she liked to think of the moon as beneficent.
The sun, see – the sun was cruel. It burned and left death in its wake. It could sap the water from a body, leave them shriveled in the sand. It would scorch any bit of skin left exposed, overzealous, perhaps, in its punishment, overbearing in its chastisement. And, cruelest of all, it would cast the world and all its deeds and misdeeds into bas relief, would drive away all but the strongest of shadows and leave even those weakened.
In the moonlight, though – in the moonlight, everything was gentled, cooled. The moon turned puddles of rainwater standing in the street to silver.
And the moon, the kindly matron, allowed a nighttime rendezvous under her protective gaze. She would even go so far as to conceal it from the wrathful sun, turning blue to a gray that could have been any color in daylight, rendering features pitched and obscure. Under the moon's patronage, Riza could have been anyone, wrapped in anyone's arms.